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COWPER'S  TASK 


ILLUSTRATED  EDITION. 


THE  TASK, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS: 


BY 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 


WITH  NUMEROUS  ILLUSTRATIONS, 

ENGRAVED  BY  CHENEY,  CUSHMAN,  ETC. 

FROM  DRAWINGS  BY  JOHN  GILBERT. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

CAREY  AND  HART. 


MDCCCXLII. 


C.  SHERMAN  AND  CO.,  PRINTERS, 

19,  ST.  JAMES  STREET,  PHILADELPHIA, 


OCT  141948' 


C 

JffzL 


CONTENTS. 


The  Task,  in  Six  Books : — Pa?e 

Book  I.— The  Sofa  9 

II.  — The  Timepiece  35 

III. — The  Garden 63 

IV.  — The  Winter  Evening 91 

Y. — The  Winter  Morning  Walk 117 

VI.—’ The  Winter  Walk  at  Noon 147 

Tirocinium;  or,  a Review  of  Schools 181 

Yardley  Oak 213 

Sonnet,  addressed  to  William  Hayley,  Esq 218 

On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother’s  Picture,  out  of  Norfolk  . 218 
An  Epistle  to  an  afflicted  Protestant  Lady  in  France  . . 222 

To  the  Rev.  W.  Cawthorne  Unwin 224 

An  Epistle  to  Joseph  Hill,  Esq 225 

To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Newton  . 227 

On  receiving  Hayley’s  Picture 228 

Catharina 229 

The  Moralizer  corrected.  A Tale 231 

The  Faithful  Bird 233 

The  Needless  Alarm.  A Tale 234 

To  John  Johnson 239 

Boadicea.  An  Ode 239 

1*  5 


667107 


6 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Heroism 241 

Friendship 244 

To  Mrs.  Throckmorton 251 

On  a mischievous  Bull 252 

On  the  Queen’s  Visit  to  London,  March  17,  1789  . . . 253 

Annus  Memorabilis,  1789,  written  in  Commemoration  of 

His  Majesty’s  happy  Recovery 256 

Gratitude.  Addressed  to  Lady  Hesketh 258 

To  my  Cousin,  Anne  Bodham 260 

A Poetical  Epistle  to  Lady  Austen 261 

To  Mrs.  King 264 

Sonnet,  to  William  Wilberforce,  Esq 266 

To  Dr.  Austin,  of  Cecil  Street,  London 266 

Sonnet,  to  George  Romney,  Esq.  ........  267 

To  Mrs.  Unwin  268 

To  Mary 269 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 271 

Stanzas,  subjoined  to  a Bill  of  Mortality  for  1787  . . . 273 

On  a Similar  Occasion,  for  the  Year  1788  275 

On  a Similar  Occasion,  for  the  Year  1789  277 

On  a Similar  Occasion,  for  the  Year  1790  279 

On  a Similar  Occasion,  for  the  Year  1792  281 

On  a Similar  Occasion,  for  the  Year  1793  .....  283 

Inscription  for  a Stone  on  sowing  a Grove  of  Oaks  . . . 285 

In  Memory  of  the  late  John  Thornton,  Esq 286 

Verses  to  the  Memory  of  Dr.  Lloyd 288 

Epitaph  on  Mrs.  M.  Higgins 289 

Epitaph  on  “ Fop” 289 

Epitaph  on  a Hare  290 

Lines,  composed  for  a Memorial  of  Ashley  Cowper,  Esq. . 292 
Hymn  for  the  Use  of  the  Sunday  School  at  Olney  . . . 293 

The  History  of  John  Gilpin  294 


CONTENTS. 


7 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  VINCENT  BOURNE 

Page 

I.  The  Glow-worm 303 

II.  The  Jackdaw 304 

III.  The  Parrot 306 

IV.  The  Cricket 307 

V.  Reciprocal  Kindness  the  Primary  Law  of  Nature  . . 309 

VI.  The  Thracian 310 

VII.  A Manual,  more  ancient  than  the  Art  of  Printing  . 311 

VIII.  An  Enigma 313 

IX.  Sparrows,  self-domesticated  in  Trinity  College  . . 314 

X.  Familiarity  Dangerous 316 

XI.  Invitation  to  the  Redbreast 316 

XII.  Strada’s  Nightingale 318 

XIII.  Ode  on  the  Death  of  a Lady 318 

XIV.  The  Cause  Won 320 

XV.  The  Silkworm 321 

XVI.  Denner’s  Old  Woman  322 

XVII.  The  Maze 323 

XVIII.  No  Sorrow  peculiar  to  the  Sufferer 323 

XIX.  The  Snail 324 


THE  TASK. 

BOOK  I.— THE  SOFA. 


ARGUMENT. 

Historical  deduction  of  seats,  from  the  stool  to  the  Sofa.  A 
school-boy’s  ramble.  A walk  in  the  country.  The  scene  described. 
Rural  sounds  as  well  as  sights  delightful.  Another  walk.  Mistake 
concerning  the  charms  of  solitude  corrected.  Colonnades  com- 
mended. Alcove,  and  the  view  from  it.  The  Wilderness.  The 
Grove.  The  Thresher.  The  necessity  and  the  benefits  of  exercise. 
The  works  of  nature  superior  to,  and,  in  some  instances,  inimitable 
by,  art.  The  wearisomeness  of  what  is  commonly  called  a life  of 
pleasure.  Change  of  scene  sometimes  expedient.  A common  de- 
scribed, and  the  character  of  crazy  Kate  introduced.  Gipsies.  The 
blessings  of  civilized  life.  That  state  most  favourable  to  virtue.  The 
South  Sea  islanders  compassionated,  but  chiefly  Omai.  His  present 
state  of  mind  supposed.  Civilized  life  friendly  to  virtue,  but  not 
great  cities.  Great  cities,  and  London  in  particular,  allowed  their 
due  praise,  but  censured.  F6te  champetre.  The  book  concludes 
with  a reflection  on  the  fatal  effects  of  dissipation  and  effeminacy  upon 
our  public  measures. 


10 


THE  TASK. 


BOOK  I. THE  SOFA. 

I SING  the  Sofa.  I,  who  lately  sang 
Truth,  Hope,  and  Charity,  and  touch’d  with  awe 
The  solemn  chords,  and  with  a trembling  hand, 
Escaped  with  pain  from  that  adventurous  flight, 
Now  seek  repose  upon  an  humbler  theme ; 

The  theme  though  humble,  yet  august  and  proud 
The  occasion — for  the  Fair  commands  the  song. 

Time  was,  when  clothing  sumptuous  or  for  use, 
Save  their  own  painted  skins,  our  sires  had  none. 
As  yet  black  breeches  were  not;  satin  smooth, 

Or  velvet  soft,  or  plush  with  shaggy  pile ; 

The  hardy  chief,  upon  the  rugged  rock 
Wash’d  by  the  sea,  or  on  the  gravelly  bank 
Thrown  up  by  wintry  torrents  roaring  loud, 
Fearless  of  wrong,  reposed  his  weary  strength. 
Those  barbarous  ages  past,  succeeded  next 
The  birthday  of  Invention ; weak  at  first, 

Dull  in  design,  and  clumsy  to  perform. 

Joint-stools  were  then  created;  on  three  legs 
Upborne  they  stood.  Three  legs  upholding  firm 
A massy  slab,  in  fashion  square  or  round. 

On  such  a stool  immortal  Alfred  sat, 

And  sway’d  the  sceptre  of  his  infant  realms  : 

And  such,  in  ancient  halls  and  mansions  drear, 

11 


/ 


12 


THE  TASK. 


May  still  be  seen ; but  perforated  sore, 

And  drill’d  in  holes  the  solid  oak  is  found, 

By  worms  voracious  eaten  through  and  through. 

At  length  a generation  more  refined 
Improved  the  simple  plan;  made  three  legs  four, 
Gave  them  a twisted  form  vermicular, 

And  o’er  the  seat,  with  plenteous  wadding  stuff’d, 
Induced  a splendid  cover,  green  and  blue, 

Yellow  and  red,  of  tapestry  richly  wrought 
And  woven  close,  or  needlework  sublime. 

There  might  ye  see  the  peony  spread  wide, 

The  full-blown  rose,  the  shepherd  and  his  lass, 
Lapdog  and  lambkin  with  black,  staring  eyes, 

And  parrots  with  twin  cherries  in  their  beak. 

Now  came  the  cane  from  India,  smooth  and  bright 
With  Nature’s  varnish  ; sever’d  into  stripes, 

That  interlaced  each  other,  these  supplied 
Of  texture  firm  a lattice-work,  that  braced 
The  new  machine,  and  it  became  a chair. 

But  restless  was  the  chair;  the  back  erect 
Distress’d  the  weary  loins,  that  felt  no  ease; 

The  slippery  seat  betray’d  the  sliding  part 
That  press’d  it,  and  the  feet  hung  dangling  down, 
Anxious  in  vain  to  find  the  distant  floor. 

These  for  the  rich ; the  rest,  whom  Fate  had  placed 
In  modest  mediocrity,  content 
With  base  materials,  sat  on  well-tann’d  hides, 
Obdurate  and  unyielding,  glassy  smooth, 

With  here  and  there  a tuft  of  crimson  yarn, 

Or  scarlet  crewel,  in  the  cushion  fix’d, 

If  cushion  might  be  call’d,  what  harder  seem’d 
Than  the  firm  oak  of  which  the  frame  was  form’d. 
No  want  of  timber  then  was  felt  or  fear’d 
In  Albion’s  happy  isle.  The  lumber  stood 


THE  SOFA. 


13 


Ponderous  and  fix’d  by  its  own  massy  weight. 

But  elbows  still  were  wanting ; these,  some  say, 

An  alderman  of  Cripplegate  contrived ; 

And  some  ascribe  the  invention  to  a priest, 

Burly,  and  big,  and  studious  of  his  ease. 

But,  rude  at  first,  and  not  with  easy  slope 
Receding  wide,  they  press’d  against  the  ribs, 

And  bruised  the  side  ; and,  elevated  high, 

Taught  the  raised  shoulders  to  invade  the  ears. 

Long  time  elapsed  or  e’er  our  rugged  sires 
Complain’d,  though  incommodiously  pent  in, 

And  ill  at  ease  behind.  The  ladies  first 
’Gan  murmur,  as  became  the  softer  sex. 

Ingenious  Fancy,  never  better  pleased 
Than  when  employ’d  to  accommodate  the  Fair, 
Heard  the  sweet  moan  with  pity,  and  devised 
The  soft  settee ; one  elbow  at  each  end, 

And  in  the  midst  an  elbow  it  received, 

United,  yet  divided,  twain  at  once. 

So  sit  two  Kings  of  Brentford  on  one  throne ; 

And  so  two  citizens,  who  take  the  air, 

Close  pack’d,  and  smiling,  in  a chaise  and  one. 

But  relaxation  of  the  languid  frame 
By  soft  recumbency  of  outstretch’d  limbs, 

Was  bliss  reserved  for  happier  days.  So  slow 
The  growth  of  what  is  excellent ; so  hard 
To  attain  perfection  in  this  nether  world. 

Thus  first  Necessity  invented  stools, 

Convenience  next  suggested  elbow-chairs, 

And  Luxury  the  accomplish’d  Sofa  last. 

The  nurse  sleeps  sweetly,  hired  to  watch  the  sick, 
Whom  snoring  she  disturbs.  As  sweetly  he 
Who  quits  the  coach-box  at  the  midnight  hour, 

To  sleep  within  the  carriage  more  secure, 

2 


14 


THE  TASK. 


His  legs  depending  at  the  open  door. 

Sweet  sleep  enjoys  the  Curate  in  his  desk, 

The  tedious  Rector  drawling  o’er  his  head ; 

And  sweet  the  Clerk  below.  But  neither  sleep 
Of  lazy  nurse,  who  snores  the  sick  man  dead  ; 

Nor  his,  who  quits  the  box  at  midnight  hour, 

To  slumber  in  the  carriage  more  secure ; 

Nor  sleep  enjoy’d  by  Curate  in  his  desk; 

Nor  yet  the  dozings  of  the  Clerk,  are  sweet, 
Compared  with  the  repose  the  Sofa  yields. 

O may  I live  exempted  (while  I live 
Guiltless  of  pamper’d  appetite  obscene) 

From  pangs  arthritic,  that  infest  the  toe 
Of  libertine  Excess.  The  Sofa  suits 
The  gouty  limb,  ’tis  true  ; but  gouty  limb, 

Though  on  a Sofa,  may  I never  feel : 

For  I have  loved  the  rural  walk  through  lanes 
Of  grassy  swarth,  close  cropp’d  by  nibbling  sheep, 
And  skirted  thick  with  intertexture  firm 
Of  thorny  boughs  ; have  loved  the  rural  walk 
O’er  hills,  through  valleys,  and  by  river’s  brink, 
E’er  since,  a truant  boy,  I pass’d  my  bounds, 

To  enjoy  a ramble  on  the  banks  of  Thames  ; 

And  still  remember,  nor  without  regret 
Of  hours  that  sorrow  since  has  much  endear’d, 
How  oft,  my  slice  of  pocket  store  consumed, 

Still  hungering,  pennyless,  and  far  from  home, 

I fed  on  scarlet  hips  and  stony  haws, 

Or  blushing  crabs,  or  berries,  that  emboss 
The  bramble,  black  as  jet,  or  sloes  austere. 

Hard  fare  ! but  such  as  boyish  appetite 
Disdains  not ; nor  the  palate,  undepraved 
By  culinary  arts,  unsavoury  deems. 

No  Sofa  then  awaited  my  return ; 


THE  SOFA. 


23 


To  which  he  forfeits  e’en  the  rest  he  loves. 

Not  such  the  alert  and  active.  Measure  life 
By  its  true  worth,  the  comforts  it  affords, 

And  theirs  alone  seem  worthy  of  the  name. 

Good  health,  and,  its  associate  in  the  most, 

Good  temper ; spirits  prompt  to  undertake, 

4nd  not  soon  spent,  though  in  an  arduous  task ; 

The  powers  of  fancy  and  strong  thought  are  theirs ; 
E’en  age  itself  seems  privileged  in  them 
With  clear  exemption  from  its  own  defects. 

A sparkling  eye,  beneath  a wrinkled  front, 

The  veteran  shows,  and,  gracing  a grey  beard 
With  youthful  smiles,  descends  towards  the  grave, 
Sprightly,  and  old  almost  without  decay. 

Like  a coy  maiden,  Ease,  when  courted  most, 
Farthest  retires — an  idol,  at  whose  shrine 
Who  oftenest  sacrifice  are  favour’d  least. 

The  love  of  Nature,  and  the  scenes  she  draws, 

Is  Nature’s  dictate.  Strange  ! there  should  be  found, 
Who,  self-imprison’d  in  their  proud  saloons, 
Renounce  the  odours  of  the  open  field 
For  the  unscented  fictions  of  the  loom ; 

Who,  satisfied  with  only  pencill’d  scenes, 

Prefer  to  the  performance  of  a God 
The  inferior  wonders  of  an  artist’s  hand ! 

Lovely,  indeed,  the  mimic  works  of  Art, 

But  Nature’s  works  far  lovelier.  I admire, 

None  more  admires,  the  painter’s  magic  skill ; 

Who  shows  me  that  which  I shall  never  see, 

Conveys  a distant  country  into  mine, 

And  throws  Italian  light  on  English  walls : 

But  imitative  strokes  can  do  no  more 

Than  please  the  eye — sweet  Nature,  every  sense. 

The  air  salubrious  of  her  lofty  hills, 


24 


THE  TASK. 


The  cheering  fragrance  of  her  dewy  vales, 

And  music  of  her  woods — no  works  of  man 
May  rival  these  ; these  all  bespeak  a power 
Peculiar,  and  exclusively  her  own. 

Beneath  the  open  sky  she  spreads  the  feast ; 

’Tis  free  to  all — ’tis  every  day  renew’d ; 

Who  scorns  it  starves  deservedly  at  home. 

He  does  not  scorn  it,  who,  imprison’d  long 
In  some  unwholesome  dungeon,  and  a prey 
To  sallow  sickness,  which  the  vapours,  dank 
And  clammy,  of  his  dark  abode  have  bred, 

Escapes  at  last  to  liberty  and  light : 

His  cheek  recovers  soon  its  healthful  hue ; 

His  eye  relumines  its  extinguish’d  fires  ; 

He  walks,  he  leaps,  he  runs — is  wing’d  with  joy, 
And  riots  in  the  sweets  of  every  breeze. 

He  does  not  scorn  it,  who  has  long  endured 
A fever’s  agonies,  and  fed  on  drugs. 

Nor  yet  the  mariner,  his  blood  inflamed 
With  acrid  salts  ; his  very  heart  athirst 
To  gaze  at  Nature  in  her  green  array, 

Upon  the  ship’s  tall  side  he  stands,  possess’d 
With  visions  prompted  by  intense  desire : 

Fair  fields  appear  below,  such  as  he  left 
Far  distant,  such  as  he  would  die  to  find — 

He  seeks  them  headlong,  and  is  seen  no  more. 

The  spleen  is  seldom  felt  where  Flora  reigns  ; 

The  lowering  eye,  the  petulance,  the  frown 
And  sullen  sadness,  that  o’ershade,  distort* 

And  mar  the  face  of  Beauty,  when  no  cause 
For  such  immeasurable  woe  appears, 

These  Flora  banishes,  and  gives  the  fair 

Sweet  smiles,  and  bloom  less  transient  than  her  own 

It  is  the  constant  revolution,  stale 


THE  SOFA. 


25 


And  tasteless,  of  the  same  repeated  joys, 

That  palls  and  satiates,  and  makes  languid  life 
A pedlar’s  pack,  that  bows  the  bearer  down. 

Health  suffers,  and  the  spirits  ebb  ; the  heart 
Recoils  from  its  own  choice — at  the  full  feast 
Is  famish’d — finds  no  music  in  the  song, 

No  smartness  in  the  jest;  and  wonders  why. 

Yet  thousands  still  desire  to  journey  on, 

Though  halt,  and  weary  of  the  path  they  tread. 

The  paralytic,  who  can  hold  her  cards, 

But  cannot  play  them,  borrows  a friend’s  hand 
To  deal  and  shuffle,  to  divide  and  sort 
Her  mingled  suits  and  sequences  ; and  sits, 

Spectatress  both  and  spectacle,  a sad 
And  silent  cipher,  while  her  proxy  plays. 

Others  are  dragg’d  into  the  crowded  room 
Between  supporters  ; and,  once  seated,  sit, 

Through  downright  inability  to  rise, 

Till  the  stout  bearers  lift  the  corpse  again. 

These  speak  a loud  memento.  Yet  e’en  these 
Themselves  love  life,  and  cling  to  it,  as  he 
That  overhangs  a torrent,  to  a twig. 

They  love  it  and  yet  loathe  it ; fear  to  die, 

Yet  scorn  the  purposes  for  which  they  live. 

Then  wherefore  not  renounce  them  ? No — the  dread, 
The  slavish  dread  of  solitude,  that  breeds 
Reflection  and  remorse,  the  fear  of  shame, 

And  their  inveterate  habits,  all  forbid. 

Whom  call  we  gay?  That  honour  has  been  long 
The  boast  of  mere  pretenders  to  the  name. 

The  innocent  are  gay — the  lark  is  gay, 

That  dries  his  feathers,  saturate  with  dew, 

Beneath  the  rosy  cloud,  while  yet  the  beams 
Of  dayspring  overshoot  his  humble  nest. 

3 


26 


THE  TASK. 


The  peasant,  too,  a witness  of  his  song, 

Himself  a songster,  is  as  gay  as  he. 

But  save  me  from  the  gaiety  of  those 
Whose  headaches  nail  them  to  a noonday  bed ; 
And  save  me  too  from  theirs,  whose  haggard  eyes 
Flash  desperation,  and  betray  their  pangs 
For  property  stripp’d  off  by  cruel  chance ; 

From  gaiety  that  fills  the  bones  with  pain, 

The  mouth  with  blasphemy,  the  heart  with  woe. 

The  earth  was  made  so  various,  that  the  mind 
Of  desultory  man,  studious  of  change, 

And  pleased  with  novelty,  might  be  indulged. 
Prospects,  however  lovely,  may  be  seen 
Till  half  their  beauties  fade ; the  weary  sight, 

Too  well  acquainted  with  their  smiles,  slides  off 
Fastidious,  seeking  less  familiar  scenes. 

Then  snug  enclosures  in  the  shelter’d  vale, 

Where  frequent  hedges  intercept  the  eye, 

Delight  us  ; happy  to  renounce  awhile, 

Not  senseless  of  its  charms,  what  still  we  love, 
That  such  short  absence  may  endear  it  more. 
Then  forests,  or  the  savage  rock,  may  please, 
That  hides  the  sea-mew  in  his  hollow  clefts, 
Above  the  reach  of  man.  His  hoary  head, 
Conspicuous  many  a league,  the  mariner 
Bound  homeward,  and  in  hope  already  there, 
Greets  with  three  cheers  exulting.  At  his  waist 
A girdle  of  half-wither’d  shrubs  he  shows, 

And  at  his  feet  the  baffled  billows  die. 

The  common,  overgrown  with  fern,  and  rough 
With  prickly  gorse,  that,  shapeless  and  deform’d, 
And  dangerous  to  the  touch,  has  yet  its  bloom, 
And  decks  itself  with  ornaments  of  gold, 

Yields  no  unpleasing  ramble  ; there  the  turf 


THE  SOFA. 


27 


Smells  fresh,  and,  rich  in  odoriferous  herbs, 

And  fungous  fruits  of  earth,  regales  the  sense 
With  luxury  of  unexpected  sweets. 

There  often  wanders  one,  whom  better  days 
Saw  better  clad,  in  cloak  of  satin,  trimm’d 
With  lace,  and  hat  with  splendid  riband  bound. 

A serving  maid  was  she,  and  fell  in  love 
With  one  who  left  her,  went  to  sea,  and  died. 

Her  fancy  follow’d  him  through  foaming  waves 
To  distant  shores  ; and  she  would  sit  and  weep 
At  what  a sailor  suffers  ; fancy,  too, 

Delusive  most  where  warmest  wishes  are, 

Would  oft  anticipate  his  glad  return, 

And  dream  of  transports  she  was  not  to  know. 

She  heard  the.  doleful  tidings  of  his  death, 

And  never  smiled  again ! And  now  she  roams 
The  dreary  waste : there  spends  the  livelong  day, 

And  there,  unless  when  charity  forbids, 

The  livelong  night.  A tatter’d  apron  hides, 

Worn  as  a cloak,  and  hardly  hides,  a gown 
More  tatter’d  still ; and  both  but  ill  conceal 
A bosom  heaved  with  never-ceasing  sighs. 

She  begs  an  idle  pin  of  all  she  meets, 

And  hoards  them  in  her  sleeve  ; but  needful  food, 
Though  press’d  with  hunger  oft,  or  comelier  clothes, 
Though  pinch’d  with  cold,  asks  never — Kate  is  crazed. 

I see  a column  of  slow-rising  smoke 
O’ertop  the  lofty  wood  that  skirts  the  wild. 

A vagabond  and  useless  tribe  there  eat 
Their  miserable  meal.  A kettle,  slung 
Between  two  poles  upon  a stick  transverse, 

Receives  the  morsel — flesh  obscene  of  dog, 

Or  vermin,  or  at  best  of  cock  purloin’d 
From  his  accustom’d  perch.  Hard-faring  race ! 


28 


THE  TASK. 


They  pick  their  fuel  out  of  every  hedge, 

Which,  kindled  with  dry  leaves,  just  saves  unquench’d 
The  spark  of  life.  The  sportive  wind  blows  wide 
Their  fluttering  rags,  and  shows  a tawny  skin, 

The  vellum  of  the  pedigree  they  claim. 

Great  skill  have  they  in  palmistry,  and  more 
To  conjure  clean  away  the  gold  they  touch, 
Conveying  worthless  dross  into  its  place ; 

Loud  when  they  beg,  dumb  only  when  they  steal. 
Strange  ! that  a creature,  rational,  and  cast 
In  human  mould,  should  brutalize  by  choice 
His  nature  ; and,  though  capable  of  arts 
By  which  the  world  might  profit,  and  himself 
Selhbanish’d  from  society,  prefer 
Such  squalid  sloth  to  honourable  toil ! 

Yet  even  these,  though,  feigning  sickness  oft, 

They  swathe  the  forehead,  drag  the  limping  limb, 

And  vex  their  flesh  with  artificial  sores, 

Can  change  their  whine  into  a mirthful  note, 

When  safe  occasion  offers ; and  with  dance, 

And  music  of  the  bladder  and  the  bag,’ 

Beguile  their  woes,  and  make  the  woods  resound. 
Such  health  and  gaiety  of  heart  enjoy 
The  houseless  rovers  of  the  sylvan  world ; 

And,  breathing  wholesome  air,  and  wandering  much, 
Need  other  physic  none  to  heal  the  effects 
Of  loathsome  diet,  penury,  and  cold. 

Blest  he,  though  undistinguish’d  from  the  crowd 
By  wealth  or  dignity,  who  dwells  secure, 

Where  man,  by  nature  fierce,  has  laid  aside 
His  fierceness,  having  learnt,  though  slow  to  learn, 
The  manners  and  the  arts  of  civil  life. 

His  wants,  indeed,  are  many ; but  supply 
Is  obvious,  placed  within  the  easy  reach 


THE  SOFA. 


29 


Of  temperate  wishes  and  industrious  hands. 

Here  Virtue  thrives,  as  in  her  proper  soil ; 

Not  rude  and  surly,  and  beset  with  thorns, 

And  terrible  to  sight,  as  when  she  springs 
(If  e’er  she  springs  spontaneous)  in  remote 
And  barbarous  climes,  where  violence  prevails, 
And  strength  is  lord  of  all ; but  gentle,  kind, 

By  culture  tamed,  by  liberty  refresh’d,* 

And  all  her  fruits  by  radiant  truth  matured. 

War  and  the  chase  engross  the  savage  whole ; 
War  follow’d  for  revenge,  or  to  supplant 
The  envied  tenants  of  some  happier  spot ; 

The  chase  for  sustenance,  precarious  trust ! 

His  hard  condition  with  severe  constraint 
Binds  all  his  faculties,  forbids  all  growth 
Of  wisdom,  proves  a school,  in  which  he  learns 
Sly  circumvention,  unrelenting  hate, 

Mean  self-attachment,  and  scarce  aught  beside. 
Thus  fare  the  shivering  natives  of  the  north, 
And  thus  the  rangers  of  the  western  world, 
Where  it  advances  far  into  the  deep, 

Towards  the  Antarctic.  E’en  the  favour’d  isles 
So  lately  found,  although  the  constant  sun 
Cheer  all  their  seasons  with  a grateful  smile, 
Can  boast  but  little  virtue  ; and,  inert 
Through  plenty,  lose  in  morals  what  they  gain 
In  manners — victims  of  luxurious  ease. 

These,  therefore,  I can  pity,  placed  remote 
From  all  that  science  traces,  art  invents, 

Or  inspiration  teaches  ; and  enclosed 
In  boundless  oceans,  never  to  be  pass’d 
By  navigators  uninform’d  as  they, 

Or  plough’d,  perhaps,  by  British  bark  again  : 
But  far  beyond  the  rest,  and  with  most  cause, 

3* 


30 


THE  TASK. 


Thee,  gentle  savage  !*  whom  no  love  of  thee 
Or  thine,  but  curiosity,  perhaps, 

Or  else  vain-glory,  prompted  us  to  draw 
Forth  from  thy  native  bowers,  to  show  thee  here 
With  what  superior  skill  we  can  abuse 
The  gifts  of  Providence,  and  squander  life. 

The  dream  is  past ; and  thou  hast  found  again 
Thy  cocoas  and  bananas,  palms  and  yams, 

And  homestall  thatch’d  with  leaves.  But  hast  thou  found 
Their  former  charms  ? And,  having  seen  our  state, 
Our  palaces,  our  ladies,  and  our  pomp 
Of  equipage,  our  gardens,  and  our  sports, 

And  heard  our  music ; are  thy  simple  friends, 

Thy  simple  fare,  and  all  thy  plain  delights, 

As  dear  to  thee  as  once  ? And  have  thy  joys 
Lost  nothing  by  comparison  with  ours  ? * 

Rude  as  thou  art,  (for  we  return’d  thee  rude 
And  ignorant,  except  of  outward  show,) 

I cannot  think  thee  yet  so  dull  of  heart 
And  spiritless,  as  never  to  regret 
Sweets  tasted  here,  and  left  as  soon  as  known. 
Methinks  I see  thee  straying  on  the  beach, 

And  asking  of  the  surge  that  bathes  thy  foot, 

If  ever  it  has  wash’d  our  distant  shore. 

I see  thee  weep,  and  thine  are  honest  tears, 

A patriot’s  for  his  country.  Thou  art  sad 
At  thought  of  her  forlorn  and  abject  state, 

From  which  no  power  of  thine  can  raise  her  up. 

Thus  Fancy  paints  thee,  and,  though  apt  to  err, 
Perhaps  errs  little  when  she  paints  thee  thus. 

She  tells  me,  too,  that  duly  every  morn 
Thou  climb’st  the  mountain  top,  with  eager  eye 
Exploring  far  and  wide  the  watery  waste 
* Omai. 


THE  SOFA. 


31 


For  sight  of  ship  from  England.  Every  speck 
Seen  in  the  dim  horizon  turns  thee  pale 
With  conflict  of  contending  hopes  and  fears. 

But  comes  at  last  the  dull  and  dusky  eve, 

And  sends  thee  to  thy  cabin,  well  prepared 
To  dream  all  night  of  what  the  day  denied. 

Alas  ! expect  it  not.  We  found  no  bait 
To  tempt  us  in  thy  country.  Doing  good, 
Disinterested  good,  is  not  our  trade. 

We  travel  far,  ’tis  true,  but  not  for  nought; 

And  must  be  bribed  to  compass  earth  again 
By  other  hopes  and  richer  fruits  than  yours. 

But  though  true  worth  and  virtue  in  the  mild 
And  genial  soil  of  cultivated  life 
Thrive  most,  and  may,  perhaps,  thrive  only  there, 
Yet  not  in  cities  oft : in  proud,  and  gay, 

And  gain-devoted  cities.  Thither  flow, 

As  to  a common  and  most  noisome  sewer, 

The  dregs  and  feculence  of  every  land. 

In  cities  foul  example  on  most  minds 
Begets  its  likeness.  Rank  abundance  breeds, 

In  gross  and  pamper’d  cities,  sloth  and  lust, 

And  wantonness,  and  gluttonous  excess. 

In  cities  vice  is  hidden  with  most  ease, 

Or  seen  with  least  reproach:  and  virtue,  taught 
By  frequent  lapse,  can  hope  no  triumph  there 
Beyond  the  achievement  of  successful  flight. 

I do  confess  them  nurseries  of  the  arts, 

In  which  they  flourish  most ; where,  in  the  beams 
Of  warm  encouragement,  and  in  the  eye 
Of  public  note,  they  reach  their  perfect  size. 

Such  London  is,  by  taste  and  wealth  proclaim’d 
The  fairest  capital  of  all  the  world, 

By  riot  and  incontinence  the  worst. 


32 


THE  TASK. 


There,  touch’d  by  Reynolds,  a dull  blank  becomes 
A lucid  mirror,  in  which  Nature  sees 
All  her  reflected  features.  Bacon  there 
Gives  more  than  female  beauty  to  a stone, 

And  Chatham’s  eloquence  to  marble  lips. 

Nor  does  the  chisel  occupy  alone 

The  powers  of  sculpture,  but  the  style  as  much ; 

Each  province  of  her  art  her  equal  care. 

With  nice  incision  of  her  guided  steel 
She  ploughs  a brazen  field,  and  clothes  a soil 
So  sterile  with  what  charms  soe’er  she  will, 

The  richest  scenery  and  the  loveliest  forms. 
Where  finds  Philosophy  her  eagle  eye, 

With  which  she  gazes  at  yon  burning  disk 
Undazzled,  and  detects  and  counts  his  spots? 

In  London.  Where  her  implements  exact, 

With  which  she  calculates,  computes,  and  scans 
All  distance,  motion,  magnitude ; and  now 
Measures  an  atom,  and  now  girds  a world  ? 

In  London.  Where  has  commerce  such  a mart, 
So  rich,  so  throng’d,  so  drain’d,  and  so  supplied, 
As  London — opulent,  enlarged,  and  still 
Increasing  London  ? Babylon  of  old 
Not  more  the  glory  of  the  earth  than  she, 

A more  accomplish’d  world’s  chief  glory  now. 

She  has  her  praise.  Now  mark  a spot  or  two, 
That  so  much  beauty  would  do  well  to  purge ; 
And  show  this  Queen  of  Cities,  that  so  fair 
May  yet  be  foul ; so  witty,  yet  not  wise. 

It  is  not  seemly,  nor  of  good  report, 

That  she  is  slack  in  discipline  ; more  prompt 
To  avenge  than  to  prevent  the  breach  of  law: 

That  she  is  rigid  in  denouncing  death 
On  petty  robbers,  and  indulges  life 


THE  SOFA. 


33 


And  liberty,  and  oft-times  honour  too, 

To  peculators  of  the  public  gold : 

That  thieves  at  home  must  hang;  but  he,  that  puts 
Into  his  overgorged  and  bloated  purse 
The  wealth  of  Indian  provinces,  escapes. 

Nor  is  it  well,  nor  can  it  come  to  good, 

That,  through  profane  and  infidel  contempt 
Of  holy  writ,  she  has  presumed  to  annul 
And  abrogate,  as  roundly  as  she  may, 

The  total  ordinance  and  will  of  God  ; 

Advancing  Fashion  to  the  post  of  Truth, 

And  centring  all  authority  in  modes 
And  customs  of  her  own,  till  sabbath  rites 
Have  dwindled  into  unrespected  forms, 

And  knees  and  hassocks  are  well  nigh  divorced. 

God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town. 
What  wonder,  then,  that  health  and  virtue,  gifts 
That  can  alone  make  sweet  the  bitter  draught 
That  life  holds  out  to  all,  should  most  abound 
And  least  be  threaten’d  in  the  fields  and  groves  ? 
Possess  ye,  therefore,  ye  who,  borne  about 
In  chariots  and  sedans,  know  no  fatigue 
But  that  of  idleness,  and  taste  no  scenes 
But  such  as  art  contrives,  possess  ye  still 
Your  element ; there  only  can  ye  shine ; 

There  only  minds  like  yours  can  do  no  harm. 

Our  groves  were  planted  to  console  at  noon 
The  pensive  wanderer  in  their  shades.  At  eve 
The  moon-beam,  sliding  softly  in  between 
The  sleeping  leaves,  is  all  the  light  they  wish ; 
Birds  warbling,  all  the  music.  We  can  spare 
The  splendour  of  your  lamps ; they  but  eclipse 
Our  softer  satellite.  Your  songs  confound 
Our  more  harmonious  notes  ; the  Thrush  departs 


34 


THE  TASK. 


Scared,  and  the  offended  Nightingale  is  mute. 
There  is  a public  mischief  in  your  mirth ; 

It  plagues  your  country.  Folly  such  as  yours, 
Graced  with  a sword,  and  worthier  of  a fan, 

Has  made,  what  enemies  could  ne’er  have  done, 
Our  arch  of  empire,  steadfast  but  for  you, 

A mutilated  structure,  soon  to  fall. 


THE  TASK. 

BOOK  II.— THE  TIMEPIECE. 


ARGUMENT. 

Reflections  suggested  by  the  conclusion  of  the  former  book.  Peace 
among  the  nations  recommended  on  the  ground  of  their  common 
fellowship  in  sorrow.  Prodigies  enumerated.  Sicilian  earthquakes. 
Man  rendered  obnoxious  to  these  calamities  by  sin.  God  the  agent 
in  them.  The  philosophy  that  stops  at  secondary  causes  reproved. 
Our  own  late  miscarriages  accounted  for.  Satirical  notice  taken  of 
our  trips  to  Fontainbleau.  But  the  pulpit,  not  satire,  the  proper 
engine  of  reformation.  The  Reverend  Advertiser  of  engraved  ser- 
mons. Petit-maitre  parson.  The  good  preacher.  Picture  of  a thea- 
trical clerical  coxcomb.  Story-tellers  and  jesters  in  the  pulpit  reproved. 
Apostrophe  to  popular  applause.  Retailers  of  ancient  philosophy 
expostulated  with.  Sum  of  the  whole  matter.  Effects  of  sacerdotal 
mismanagement  on  the  laity.  Their  folly  and  extravagance.  The 
mischiefs  of  profusion.  Profusion  itself,  with  all  its  consequent  evils, 
ascribed,  as  to  its  principal  cause,  to  the  want  of  discipline  in  the 
universities. 


36 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLIHOiS 


THE  TASK. 


BOOK  II. THE  TIMEPIECE. 

O for  a lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 

Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 

Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit, 

Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 

Might  never  reach  me  more.  My  ear  is  pain’d, 
My  soul  is  sick  with  every  day’s  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  fill’d. 
There  is  no  flesh  in  man’s  obdurate  heart, 

It  does  not  feel  for  man ; the  natural  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  sever’d  as  the  flax 
That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 

He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a skin 
Not  colour’d  like  his  own ; and  having  power 
To  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.  Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else 
Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 

Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys ; 
And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored 
As  human  nature’s  broadest,  foulest  blot, 

Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
With  stripes,  that  Mercy  with  a bleeding  heart 
4 37 


38 


THE  TASK. 


Weeps,  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a beast. 

Then  what  is  man  ? And  what  man,  seeing  this, 

And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush, 

And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a man  ? 

I would  not  have  a slave  to  till  my  ground, 

To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I sleep, 

And  tremble  when  I wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earn’d. 

No : dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart’s 
Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 

I had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave, 

' And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 

We  have  no  slaves  at  home — then  why  abroad? 

And  they  themselves,  once  ferried  o’er  the  wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 

Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England  ; if  their  lungs 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free  ; 

They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  fall. 

That’s  noble,  and  bespeaks  a nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.  Spread  it,  then, 

And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein 

Of  all  your  empire  ; that,  where  Britain’s  power 

Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 

Sure  there  is  need  of  social  intercourse, 
Benevolence,  and  peace,  and  mutual  aid, 

Between  the  nations  in  a world,  that  seems 
To  toll  the  deathbell  of  its  own  decease, 

And,  by  the  voice  of  all  its  elements, 

To  preach  the  general  doom.*  When  were  the  winds 
Let  slip  with  such  a warrant  to  destroy? 

When  did  the  waves  so  haughtily  o’erleap 
Their  ancient  barriers,  deluging  the  dry? 

* Alluding  to  the  calamities  in  Jamaica. 


THE  TIMEPIECE. 


39 


Fires  from  beneath,  and  meteors*  from  above, 
Portentous,  unexampled,  unexplain’d, 

Have  kindled  beacons  in  the  skies ; and  the  old 
And  crazy  earth  has  had  her  shaking  fits 
More  frequent,  and  foregone  her  usual  rest. 

Is  it  a time  to  wrangle,  when  the  props 
And  pillars  of  our  planet  seem  to  fail, 

And  Naturef  with  a dim  and  sickly  eye 
To  wait  the  close  of  all?  But  grant  her  end 
More  distant,  and  that  prophecy  demands 
A longer  respite,  unaccomplish’d  yet ; 

Still  they  are  frowning  signals,  and  bespeak 
Displeasure  in  His  breast,  who  smites  the  earth 
Or  heals  it,  makes  it  languish  or  rejoice. 

And  ’tis  but  seemly  that,  where  all  deserve 
And  stand  exposed  by  common  peccancy 
To  what  no  few  have  felt,  there  should  be  peace, 

And  brethren  in  calamity  should  love. 

Alas  for  Sicily!  rude  fragments  now 
Lie  scatter’d,  where  the  shapely  column  stood. 

Her  palaces  are  dust.  In  all  her  streets 
The  voice  of  singing  and  the  sprightly  chord 
Are  silent.  Revelry,  and  dance,  and  show, 

Suffer  a syncope  and  solemn  pause  ; 

While  God  performs  upon  the  trembling  stage 
Of  His  own  works  His  dreadful  part  alone. 

How  does  the  earth  receive  Him? — with  what  signs 
Of  gratulation  and  delight,  her  King? 

Pours  she  not  all  her  choicest  fruits  abroad, 

Her  sweetest  flowers,  her  aromatic  gums, 

Disclosing  Paradise  where’er  He  treads  ? 

* August  18th,  1783. 

f Alluding  to  the  fog  that  covered  both  Europe  and  Asia  during 
the  whole  summer  of  1783. 


40 


THE  TASK. 


She  shakes  at  His  approach.  Her  hollow  womb, 
Conceiving  thunders,  through  a thousand  deeps 
And  fiery  caverns,  roars  beneath  His  foot. 

The  hills  move  lightly,  and  the  mountains  smoke, 

For  He  has  touch’d  them.  From  the  extremest  point 

Of  elevation  down  into  the  abyss 

His  wrath  is  busy,  and  His  frown  is  felt. 

The  rocks  fall  headlong,  and  the  valleys  rise ; 

The  rivers  die  into  offensive  pools, 

And,  charged  with  putrid  verdure,  breathe  a gross 
And  mortal  nuisance  into  all  the  air. 

What  solid  was,  by  transformation  strange, 

Grows  fluid ; and  the  fix’d  and  rooted  earth, 
Tormented  into  billows,  heaves  and  swells, 

Or  with  vertiginous  and  hideous  whirl 
Sucks  down  its  prey  insatiable.  Immense 
The  tumult  and  the  overthrow,  the  pangs 
And  agonies  of  human  and  of  brute 
Multitudes,  fugitive  on  every  side, 

And  fugitive  in  vain.  The  sylvan  scene 
Migrates  uplifted ; and,  with  all  its  soil 
Alighting  in  far  distant  fields,  finds  out 
A new  possessor,  and  survives  the  change. 

Ocean  has  caught  the  frenzy,  and,  upwrought 
To  an  enormous  and  o’erbearing  height, 

Not  by  a mighty  wind,  but  by  that  voice 
Which  winds  and  waves  obey,  invades  the  shore 
Resistless.  Never  such  a sudden  flood, 

Upridged  so  high,  and  sent  on  such  a charge, 
Possess’d  an  inland  scene.  Where  now  the  throng 
That  press’d  the  beach,  and,  hasty  to  depart, 

Look’d  to  the  sea  for  safety?  They  are  gone, 

Gone  with  the  refluent  wave  into  the  deep — 

A prince  with  half  his  people ! Ancient  towers, 


THE  TIMEPIECE. 


41 


And  roofs  embattled  high,  the  gloomy  scenes, 

Where  beauty  oft  and  letter’d  worth  consume 
Life  in  the  unproductive  shades  of  death, 

Fall  prone  : the  pale  inhabitants  come  forth, 

And,  happy  in  their  unforeseen  release 
From  all  the  rigours  of  restraint,  enjoy 
The  terrors  of  the  day  that  sets  them  free. 

Who,  then,  that  has  thee,  would  not  hold  thee  fast, 
Freedom ! whom  they  that  lose  thee  so  regret, 

That  e’en  a judgment,  making  way  for  thee, 

Seems,  in  their  eyes,  a mercy  for  thy  sake? 

Such  evil  sin  hath  wrought ; and  such  a flame 
Kindled  in  Heaven,  that  it  burns  down  to  earth, 

And  in  the  furious  inquest,  that  it  makes 
On  God’s  behalf,  lays  waste  His  fairest  works. 

The  very  elements,  though  each  be  meant 
The  minister  of  man,  to  serve  his  wants, 

Conspire  against  him.  With  his  breath  he  draws 
A plague  into  his  blood ; and  cannot  use 
Life’s  necessary  means,  but  he  must  die. 

Storms  rise  to  o’erwhelm  him ; or,  if  stormy  winds 
Rise  not,  the  waters  of  the  deep  shall  rise, 

And,  needing  none  assistance  of  the  storm, 

Shall  roll  themselves  ashore,  and  reach  him  there 
The  earth  shall  shake  him  out  of  all  his  holds, 

Or  make  his  house  his  grave : nor  so  content, 

Shall  counterfeit  the  motions  of  the  flood, 

And  drown  him  in  her  dry  and  dusty  gulfs. 

What  then ! — were  they  the  wicked  above  all, 

And  we  the  righteous,  whose  fast-anchor’ d Isle 
Moved  not,  while  theirs  was  rock’d,  like  a light  skiff, 
The  sport  of  every  wave?  No  : none  are  clear, 

And  none  than  we  more  guilty.  But,  where  all 
Stand  chargeable  with  guilt,  and  to  the  shafts 
4* 


42 


THE  TASK. 


Of  wrath  obnoxious,  God  may  choose  his  mark : 
May  punish,  if  he  please,  the  less,  to  warn 
The  more  malignant.  If  he  spared  not  them, 
Tremble  and  be  amazed  at  thine  escape, 

Far  guiltier  England,  lest  he  spare  not  thee ! 

Happy  the  man,  who  sees  a God  employ’d 
In  all  the  good  and  ill  that  checker  life ! 

Resolving  all  events,  with  their  effects 
And  manifold  results,  into  the  will 
And  arbitration  wise  of  the  Supreme. 

Did  not  His  eye  rule  all  things,  and  intend 
The  least  of  our  concerns,  (since  from  the  least 
The  greatest  oft  originate  ;)  could  chance 
Find  place  in  His  dominion,  or  dispose 
One  lawless  particle  to  thwart  His  plan ; 

Then  God  might  be  surprised,  and  unforeseen 
Contingence  might  alarm  him,  and  disturb 
The  smooth  and  equal  course  of  his  affairs. 

This  truth  Philosophy,  though  eagle-eyed 
In  Nature’s  tendencies,  oft  overlooks ; 

And,  having  found  His  instrument,  forgets, 

Or  disregards,  or,  more  presumptuous  still, 

Denies  the  power  that  wields  it.  God  proclaims 
His  hot  displeasure  against  foolish  men 
That  live  an  atheist  life  : involves  the  Heavens 
In  tempests  ; quits  His  grasp  upon  the  winds, 

And  gives  them  all  their  fury;  bids  a plague 
Kindle  a fiery  boil  upon  the  skin, 

And  putrefy  the  breath  of  blooming  Health”. 

He  calls  for  Famine,  and  the  meagre  fiend 
Blows  mildew  from  between  his  shrivell’d  lips, 
And  taints  the  golden  ear.  He  springs  His  mines, 
And  desolates  a nation  at  a blast. 

Forth  steps  the  spruce  philosopher,  and  tells 


THE  TIMEPIECE. 


43 


Of  homogeneal  and  discordant  springs 
And  principles  ; of  causes,  how  they  work, 

By  necessary  laws,  their  sure  effects  ; 

Of  action  and  re-action  : he  has  found 
The  source  of  the  disease  that  Nature  feels 
And  bids  the  world  take  heart,  and  banish  feai. 

Thou  fool ! will  thy  discovery  of  the  cause 

Suspend  the  effect,  or  heal  it?  Has  not  God 

Still  wrought  by  means  since  first  He  made  the  world  ? 

And  did  He  not  of  old  employ  His  means 

To  drown  it?  What  is  His  creation  less 

Than  a capacious  reservoir  of  means 

Form’d  for  His  use,  and  ready  at  His  will? 

Go,  dress  thine  eyes  with  eye-salve  ; ask  of  Him, 

Or  ask  of  whomsoever  He  has  taught; 

And  learn,  though  late,  the  genuine  cause  of  all ! 

England,  with  all  thy  faults,  I love  thee  still — 

My  country ! and,  while  yet  a nook  is  left, 

Where  English  minds  and  manners  may  be  found, 
Shall  be  constrain’d  to  love  thee.  Though  thy  clirne 
Be  fickle,  and  thy  year  most  part  deform’d 
With  dripping  rains,  or  wither’d  by  a frost, 

I would  not  yet  exchange  thy  sullen  skies, 

And  fields  without  a flower,  for  warmer  France, 

With  all  her  vines  : nor  for  Ausonia’s  groves 
Of  golden  fruitage,  and  her  myrtle  bowers. 

To  shake  thy  senate,  and  from  heights  sublime 
Of  patriot  eloquence  to  flash  down  fire 
Upon  thy  foes,  was  never  meant  my  task: 

But  I can  feel  thy  fortunes,  and  partake 
Thy  joys  and  sorrows,  with  as  true  a heart 
As  any  thunderer  there.  And  I can  feel 
Thy  follies  too;  and  with  a just  disdain 
Frown  at  effeminates,  whose  very  looks 


44 


THE  TASK. 


Reflect  dishonour  on  the  land  I love. 

How,  in  the  name  of  soldiership  and  sense, 

Should  England  prosper,  when  such  things,  as  smooth 
And  tender  as  a girl,  all  essenced  o’er 
With  odours,  and  as  profligate  as  sweet; 

Who  sell  their  laurel  for  a myrtle  wreath, 

And  love  when  they  should  fight ; when  such  as  these 
Presume  to  lay  their  hand  upon  the  ark 
Of  her  magnificent  and  awful  cause  ? 

Time  was,  when  it  was  praise  and  boast  enough 
In  every  clime,  and  travel  where  we  might, 

That  we  were  born  her  children.  Praise  enough 
To  fill  the  ambition  of  a private  man, 

That  Chatham’s  language  was  his  mother  tongue, 

And  Wolfe’s  great  name  compatriot  with  his  own. 
Farewell  those  honours,  and  farewell  with  them 
The  hope  of  such  hereafter ! They  have  fallen 
Each  in  his  field  of  glory ; one  in  arms, 

And  one  in  council — Wolfe,  upon  the  lap 
Of  smiling  Victory,  that  moment  won, 

And  Chatham,  heart-sick  of  his  country’s  shame ! 
They  made  us  many  soldiers.  Chatham,  still 
Consulting  England’s  happiness  at  home, 

Secured  it  by  an  unforgiving  frown, 

If  any  wrong’d  her.  Wolfe,  where’er  he  fought, 

Put  so  much  of  his  heart  into  his  act, 

That  his  example  had  a magnet’s  force, 

And  all  were  swift  to  follow  whom  all  loved. 

Those  suns  are  set.  O rise  some  other  such ! 

Or  all  that  we  have  left  is  empty  talk 
Of  old  achievements,  and  despair  of  new. 

Now  hoist  the  sail,  and  let  the  streamers  float 
Upon  the  wanton  breezes.  Strew  the  deck 
With  lavender,  and  sprinkle  liquid  sweets, 


THE  TIMEPIECE. 


45 


That  no  rude  savour  maritime  invade 
The  nose  of  nice  nobility ! Breathe  soft, 

Ye  clarionets;  and  softer  still,  ye  flutes; 

That  winds  and  waters,  lull’d  by  magic  sounds, 
May  bear  us  smoothly  to  the  Gallic  shore ! 

True,  we  have  lost  an  empire — let  it  pass ! 

True ; we  may  thank  the  perfidy  of  France, 

That  pick’d  the  jewel  out  of  England’s  crown, 
With  all  the  cunning  of  an  envious  shrew. 

And  let  that  pass — ’twas  but  a trick  of  state ! 

A brave  man  knows  no  malice,  but  at  once 
Forgets  in  peace  the  injuries  of  war, 

And  gives  his  direst  foe  a friend’s  embrace. 

And,  shamed  as  we  have  been,  to  the  very  beard 
Braved  and  defied,  and  in  our  own  sea  proved 
Too  weak  for  those  decisive  blows,  that  once 
Ensured  us  mastery  there,  we  yet  retain 
Some  small  pre-eminence ; we  justly  boast 
At  least  superior  jockeyship,  and  claim 
The  honours  of  the  turf  as  all  our  own ! 

Go,  then,  well  worthy  of  the  praise  ye  seek, 

And  show  the  shame  ye  might  conceal  at  home, 
In  foreign  eyes ! — be  grooms,  and  win  the  plate, 
Where  once  your  nobler  fathers  won  a crown! — 
’Tis  generous  to  communicate  your  skill 
To  those  that  need  it.  Folly  is  soon  learn’d : 
And  under  such  preceptors  who  can  fail? 

There  is  a pleasure  in  poetic  pains, 

Which  only  poets  know.  The  shifts  and  turns, 
The  expedients  and  inventions  multiform 
To  which  the  mind  resorts,  in  chase  of  terms, 
Though  apt,  yet  coy,  and  difficult  to  win — 

To  arrest  the  fleeting  images  that  fill 
The  mirror  of  the  mind,  and  hold  them  fast, 


46 


THE  TASK. 


And  force  them  sit,  till  he  has  pencill’d  off 
A faithful  likeness  of  the  forms  he  views ; 

Then,  to  dispose  his  copies  with  such  art 
That  each  may  find  its  most  propitious  light, 

And  shine  by  situation  hardly  less 
Than  by  the  labour  and  the  skill  it  cost, 

Are  occupations  of  the  poet’s  mind 
So  pleasing,  and  that  steal  away  the  thought 
With  such  address  from  themes  of  sad  import, 
That,  lost  in  his  own  musings,  happy  man ! 

He  feels  the  anxieties  of  life,  denied 
Their  wonted  entertainment,  all  retire. 

Such  joys  has  he  that  sings.  But,  ah!  not  such 
Or  seldom  such,  the  hearers  of  his  song. 

Fastidious,  or  else  listless,  or,  perhaps, 

Aware  of  nothing  arduous  in  a task 

They  never  undertook,  they  little  note 

His  dangers  or  escapes,  and  haply  find 

Their  least  amusement  where  he  found  the  most. 

But  is  amusement  all?  Studious  of  song, 

And  yet  ambitious  not  to  sing  in  vain, 

I would  not  trifle  merely,  though  the  world 
Be  loudest  in  their  praise  who  do  no  more. 

Yet  what  can  satire,  whether  grave  or  gay? 

It  may  correct  a foible,  may  chastise 
The  freaks  of  fashion,  regulate  the  dress, 

Retrench  a sword-blade,  or  displace  a patch; 

But  where  are  its  sublimer  trophies  found? 

What  vice  has  it  subdued?  Whose  heart  reclaim’d 
By  rigour,  or  whom  laugh’d  into  reform? 

Alas ! Leviathan  is  not  so  tamed ; 

J^augh’d  at,  he  laughs  again ; and,  stricken  hard, 
Turns  to  the  stroke  his  adamantine  scales, 

That  fear  no  discipline  of  human  hands. 


THE  TIMEPIECE. 


47 


The  pulpit,  therefore — (and  I name  it  fill’d 
With  solemn  awe,  that  bids  me  well  beware 
With  what  intent  I touch  that  holy  thing) — 

The  pulpit — (when  the  satirist  has  at  last, 

Strutting  and  vapouring  in  an  empty  school, 

Spent  all  his  force  and  made  no  proselyte) — 

I say  the  pulpit  (in  the  sober  use 
Of  its  legitimate,  peculiar  powers) 

Must  stand  acknowledged,  while  the  world  shall  stand 
The  most  important  and  effectual  guard, 

Support,  and  ornament  of  Virtue’s  cause. 

There  stands  the  messenger  of  truth ; there  stands 
The  legate  of  the  skies ! — His  theme  divine, 

His  office  sacred,  his  credentials  clear. 

By  him  the  violated  law  speak  out 

Its  thunders ; and  by  him,  in  strains  as  sweet 

As  angels  use,  the  Gospel  whispers  peace. 

He  ’stablishes  the  strong,  restores  the  weak, 

Reclaims  the  wanderer,  binds  the  broken  heart, 

And,  arm’d,  himself,  in  panoply  complete 
Of  heavenly  temper,  furnishes  with  arms 
Bright  as  his  own,  and  trains,  by  every  rule 
Of  holy  discipline,  to  glorious  war, 

The  sacramental  host  of  God’s  elect ! 

Are  all  such  teachers  ? — would  to  Heaven  all  were ! 
But  hark — the  doctor’s  voice ! — fast  wedged  between 
Two  empirics  he  stands,  and  with  swoln  cheeks 
Inspires  the  news,  his  trumpet.  Keener  far 
Than  all  invective  is  his  bold  harangue, 

While  through  that  public  organ  of  report 
He  hails  the  clergy ; and,  defying  shame, 

Announces  to  the  world  his  own  and  theirs ! 

He  teaches  those  to  read  whom  schools  dismiss’d, 


48 


THE  TASK. 


And  colleges,  untaught ; sells  accent,  tone, 

And  emphasis  in  score,  and  gives  to  prayer 
The  adagio  and  andante  it  demands. 

He  grinds  divinity  of  other  days 
Down  into  modern  use ; transforms  old  print 
To  zigzag  manuscript,  and  cheats  the  eyes 
Of  gallery  critics  by  a thousand  arts. 

Are  there  who  purchase  of  the  doctor’s  ware? 

O,  name  it  not  in  Gath ! — it  cannot  be, 

That  grave  and  learned  clerks  should  need  such  aid. 
He,  doubtless,  is  in  sport,  and  does  but  droll, 
Assuming  thus  a rank  unknown  before — 

Grand  caterer  and  dry-nurse  of  the  church. 

I venerate  the  man  whose  heart  is  warm, 

Whose  hands  are  pure,  whose  doctrine  and  whose  life, 
Coincident,  exhibit  lucid  proof 
That  he  is  honest  in  the  sacred  cause. 

To  such  I render  more  than  mere  respect, 

Whose  actions  say  that  they  respect  themselves. 

But  loose  in  morals,  and  in  manners  vain, 

In  conversation  frivolous,  in  dress 
Extreme,  at  once  rapacious  and  profuse; 

Frequent  in  park  with  lady  at  his  side, 

Ambling  and  prattling  scandal  as  he  goes ; 

But  rare  at  home,  and  never  at  his  books, 

Or  with  his  pen,  save  when  he  scrawls  a card; 
Constant  at  routs,  familiar  with  a round 
Of  ladyships,  a stranger  to  the  poor; 

Ambitious  of  preferment,  for  its  gold, 

And  well  prepared,  by  ignorance  and  sloth, 

By  infidelity  and  love  of  world, 

To  make  God’s  work  a sinecure;  a slave 
To  his  own  pleasures  and  his  patron’s  pride; 


THE  TIMEPIECE. 


49 


From  such  apostles,  O ye  mitred  heads 
Preserve  the  church ! and  lay  not  careless  hands 
On  skulls  that  cannot  teach,  and  will  not  learn. 

Would  I describe  a preacher,  such  as  Paul, 
Were  he  on  earth,  would  hear,  approve,  and  own, 
Paul  should  himself  direct  me.  I would  trace 
His  master-strokes,  and  draw  from  his  design. 

I would  express  him  simple,  grave,  sincere ; 

In  doctrine  uncorrupt;  in  language  plain, 

And  plain  in  manner;  decent,  solemn,  chaste, 

And  natural  in  gesture ; much  impress’d 
Himself,  as  conscious  of  his  awful  charge, 

And  anxious  mainly  that  the  flock  he  feeds 
May  feel  it  too ; affectionate  in  look, 

And  tender  in  address,  as  well  becomes 
A messenger  of  grace  to  guilty  men. 

Behold  the  picture ! — Is  it  like  ? — Like  whom  ? 
The  things  that  mount  the  rostrum  with  a skip, 
And  then  skip  down  again ; pronounce  a text, 

Cry — hem ; and,  reading  what  they  never  wrote 
Just  fifteen  minutes,  huddle  up  their  work, 

And  with  a well-bred  whisper  close  the  scene ! 

In  man  or  woman,  but  far  most  in  man, 

And  most  of  all  in  man  that  ministers 
And  serves  the  altar,  in  my  soul  I loathe 
All  affectation.  ’Tis  my  perfect  scorn; 

Object  of  my  implacable  disgust. 

What! — will  a man  play  tricks,  will  he  indulge 
A silly,  fond  conceit  of  his  fair  form, 

And  just  proportion,  fashionable  mien, 

And  pretty  face,  in  presence  of  his  God? 

Or  will  he  seek  to  dazzle  me  with  tropes, 

As  with  the  diamond  on  his  lily  hand, 

And  play  his  brilliant  parts  before  my  eyes, 

5 


50 


THE  TASK. 


When  I am  hungry  for  the  bread  of  life  ? 

He  mocks  his  Maker,  prostitutes  and  shames 
His  noble  office,  and,  instead  of  truth, 

Displaying  his  own  beauty,  starves  his  flock. 
Therefore,  avaunt  all  attitude,  and  stare, 

And  start  theatric,  practised  at  the  glass ! 

I seek  divine  simplicity  in  him 

Who  handles  things  divine ; and  all  besides, 

Though  learn’ d with  labour,  and  though  much  admired 
By  curious  eyes  and  judgments  ill-inform’d, 

To  me  is  odious  as  the  nasal  twang 
Heard  at  conventicle,  where  worthy  men, 

Misled  by  custom,  strain  celestial  themes 
Through  the  press’d  nostril,  spectacle-bestrid. 

Some,  decent  in  demeanour  while  they  preach, 

That  task  perform’d,  relapse  into  themselves; 

And,  having  spoken  wisely,  at  the  close 
Grow  wanton,  and  give  proof  to  every  eye, 

Whoe’er  was  edified,  themselves  were  not! 

Forth  comes  the  pocket  mirror. — First  we  stroke 
An  eyebrow ; next  compose  a straggling  lock ; 

Then,  with  an  air  most  gracefully  perform’d, 

Fall  back  into  our  seat,  extend  an  arm, 

And  lay  it  at  its  ease  with  gentle  care, 

With  handkerchief  in  hand  depending  low: 

The  better  hand,  more  busy,  gives  the  nose 
Its  bergamot,  or  aids  the  indebted  eye 
With  opera-glass,  to  watch  the  moving  scene, 

And  recognise  the  slow-retiring  fair. — 

Now,  this  is  fulsome,  and  offends  me  more 
Than  in  a churchman  slovenly  neglect 
And  rustic  coarseness  would.  A heavenly  mind 
May  be  indifferent  to  her  house  of  clay, 

And  slight  the  hovel  as  beneath  her  care ; 


51 


) 

THE  TIMEPIECE. 

But  how  a body  so  fantastic,  trim, 

And  quaint,  in  its  deportment  and  attire, 

Can  lodge  a heavenly  mind — demands  a doubt. 

He  that  negotiates  between  God  and  man, 

As  God’s  ambassador,  the  grand  concerns 
Of  judgment  and  of  mercy,  should  beware 
Of  lightness  in  his  speech.  ’Tis  pitiful 
To  court  a grin,  when  you  should  woo  a soul. 

To  break  a jest,  when  pity  would  inspire 
Pathetic  exhortation ; and  to  address 
The  skittish  fancy  with  facetious  tales, 

When  sent  with  God’s  commission  to  the  heart! 

So  did  not  Paul.  Direct  me  to  a quip 
Or  merry  turn  in  all  he  ever  wrote, 

And  I consent  you  take  it  for  your  text, 

Your  only  one,  till  sides  and  benches  fail. 

No!  he  was  serious  in  a serious  cause, 

And  understood  too  well  the  weighty  terms 
That  he  had  ta’en  in  charge.  He  would  not  stoop 
To  conquer  those,  by  jocular  exploits, 

Whom  truth  and  soberness  assail’d  in  vain. 

O Popular  Applause ! what  heart  of  man 
Is  proof  against  thy  sweet,  seducing  charms  ? 

The  wisest  and  the  best  feel  urgent  need 
Of  all  their  caution  in  thy  gentlest  gales ; 

But,  swell’d  into  a gust — who  then,  alas ! 

With  all  his  canvass  set,  and  inexpert, 

And,  therefore,  heedless,  can  withstand  thy  power? 
Praise  from  the  rivel’d  lips  of  toothless,  bald 
Decrepitude,  and  in  the  looks  of  lean 
And  craving  poverty,  and  in  the  bow 
Respectful  of  the  smutch’d  artificer, 

Is  oft  too  welcome,  and  may  much  disturb 
The  bias  of  the  purpose.  How  much  more, 


U.  OF  ILL  LIB. 


52 


THE  TASK. 


Pour’d  forth  by  beauty  splendid  and  polite, 

In  language  soft  as  Adoration  breathes  ? 

Ah ! spare  your  idol ! think  him  human  still. 

Charms  he  may  have,  but  he  has  frailties  too ! 

Dote  not  too  much,  nor  spoil  what  ye  admire. 

All  truth  is  from  the  sempiternal  source 
Of  light  divine.  But  Egypt,  Greece,  and  Rome, 
Drew  from  the  stream  below.  More  favour’d,  we 
Drink,  when  we  choose  it,  at  the  fountain  head. 

To  them  it  flow’d  much  mingled  and  defiled 
With  hurtful  error,  prejudice,  and  dreams 
Illusive  of  philosophy,  so  call’d, 

But  falsely.  Sages  after  sages  strove 
In  vain  to  filter  off  a crystal  draught 
Pure  from  the  lees,  which  often  more  enhanced 
The  thirst,  than  slaked  it,  and  not  seldom  bred 
Intoxication  and  delirium  wild. 

In  vain  they  push’d  inquiry  to  the  birth 

And  spring-time  of  the  world;  ask’d,  Whence  is  man 

Why  form’d  at  all  ? and  wherefore  as  he  is  ? 

Where  must  he  find  his  Maker?  with  what  rites 
Adore  Him?  Will  He  hear,  accept,  and  bless? 

Or  does  He  sit  regardless  of  his  works  ? 

Has  man  within  him  an  immortal  seed? 

Or  does  the  tomb  take  all?  If  he  survive 
His  ashes,  where  ? and  in  what  weal  or  woe  ? 

Knots  worthy  of  solution,  which  alone 
A Deity  could  solve.  Their  answers,  vague 
And  all  at  random,  fabulous  and  dark, 

Left  them  as  dark  themselves.  Their  rules  of  life, 
Defective  and  unsanction’d,  proved  too  weak 
To  bind  the  roving  appetite,  and  lead 
Blind  Nature  to  a God  not  yet  reveal’d. 

*Tis  Revelation  satisfies  all  doubts, 


THE  TIMEPIECE. 


53 


Explains  all  mysteries  except  her  own, 

And  so  illuminates  the  path  of  life, 

That  fools  discover  it,  and  stray  no  more. 

Now  tell  me,  dignified  and  sapient  Sir, 

My  man  of  morals,  nurtured  in  the  shades 
Of  Academus — is  this  false  or  true  ? 

Is  Christ  the  abler  teacher,  or  the  schools? 

If  Christ,  then  why  resort,  at  every  turn, 

To  Athens  or  to  Rome,  for  wisdom  short 
Of  man’s  occasions,  when  in  Him  reside 
Grace,  knowledge,  comfort — an  unfathom’d  store? 
How  oft,  when  Paul  has  served  us  with  a text, 

Has  Epictetus,  Plato,  Tully  preach’d! 

Men  that,  if  now  alive,  would  sit  content 
And  humble  learners  of  a Saviour’s  worth, 

Preach  it  who  might.  Such  was  their  love  of  truth, 
Their  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  their  candour  too ! 

And  thus  it  is. — The  pastor,  either  vain 
By  nature,  or  by  flattery  made  so,  taught 
To  gaze  at  his  own  splendour,  and  to  exalt 
Absurdly,  not  his  office,  but  himself ; 

Or  unenlightened,  and  too  proud  to  learn ; 

Or  vicious,  and  not  therefore  apt  to  teach ; 

Perverting  often  by  the  stress  of  lewd 
And  loose  example,  whom  he  should  instruct; 
Exposes,  and  holds  up  to  broad  disgrace 
The  noblest  function,  and  discredits  much 
The  brightest  truths  that  man  has  ever  seen. 

For  ghostly  counsel,  if  it  either  fall 
Below  the  exigence,  or  be  not  back’d 
With  show  of  love,  at  least  with  hopeful  proof 
Of  some  sincerity  on  the  giver’s  part; 

Or  be  dishonour’d,  in  the  exterior  form 
And  mode  of  its  conveyance,  by  such  tricks 
5* 


54 


THE  TASK. 


As  move  derision,  or  by  foppish  airs 
And  histrionic  mummery,  that  let  down 
The  pulpit  to  the  level  of  the  stage ; 

Drops  from  the  lips,  a disregarded  thing. 

The  weak,  perhaps,  are  moved,  but  are  not  taught, 
While  prejudice  in  men  of  stronger  minds 
Takes  deeper  root,  confirm’d  by  what  they  see. 

A relaxation  of  religion’s  hold 
Upon  the  roving  and  untutor’d  heart 
Soon  follows,  and,  the  curb  of  conscience  snapp’d, 
The  laity  run  wild. — But  do  they  now  ? 

Note  their  extravagance,  and  be  convinced. 

As  nations,  ignorant  of  God,  contrive 
A wooden  one ; so  we,  no  longer  taught 
By  monitors  that  mother  church  supplies, 

Now  make  our  own.  Posterity  will  ask 
(If  e’er  posterity  see  verse  of  mine) 

Some  fifty  or  a hundred  lustrums  hence, 

What  was  a monitor  in  George’s  days? 

My  very  gentle  reader,  yet  unborn, 

Of  whom  I needs  must  augur  better  things, 

Since  Heaven  would  sure  grow  weary  of  a world 
Productive  only  of  a race  like  ours, 

A monitor  is  wood — plank  shaven  thin. 

We  wear  it  at  our  backs.  There,  closely  braced 
And  neatly  fitted,  it  compresses  hard 
The  prominent  and  most  unsightly  bones, 

And  binds  the  shoulders  flat.  We  prove  its  use 
Sovereign  and  most  effectual  to  secure 
A form,  not  now  gymnastic  as  of  yore, 

From  rickets  and  distortion,  else  our  lot. 

But  thus  admonish’d,  we  can  walk  erect — 

One  proof  at  least  of  manhood ! while  the  friend 
Sticks  close,  a Mentor  worthy  of  his  charge. 


THE  TIMEPIECE. 


55 


Our  habits,  costlier  than  Lucullus  wore, 

And  by  caprice  as  multiplied  as  his, 

Just  please  us  while  the  fashion  is  at  full, 

But  change  with  every  moon.  The  sycophant, 
Who  waits  to  dress  us,  arbitrates  their  date ; 
Surveys  his  fair  reversion  with  keen  eye ; 

Finds  one  ill  made,  another  obsolete, 

This  fits  not  nicely,  that  is  ill  conceived : 

And,  making  prize  of  all  that  he  condemns, 

With  our  expenditure  defrays  his  own. 

Variety’s  the  very  spice  of  life, 

That  gives  it  all  its  flavour.  We  have  run 
Through  every  change  that  Fancy,  at  the  loom  * 
Exhausted,  has  had  genius  to  supply ; 

And,  studious  of  mutation  still,  discard 
A real  elegance,  a little  used, 

For  monstrous  novelty  and  strange  disguise. 

We  sacrifice  to  dress,  till  household  joys 
And  comforts  cease.  Dress  drains  our  cellar  dry, 
And  keeps  our  larder  lean ; puts  out  our  fires : 
And  introduces  hunger,  frost,  and  woe, 

Where  peace  and  hospitality  might  reign. 

What  man  that  lives,  and  that  knows  how  to  live, 
Would  fail  to  exhibit  at  the  public  shows 
A form  as  splendid  as  the  proudest  there, 

Though  appetite  raise  outcries  at  the  cost? 

A man  o’  the  town  dines  late,  but  soon  enough, 
With  reasonable  forecast  and  dispatch, 

To  ensure  a side-box  station  at  half  price. 

You  think,  perhaps,  so  delicate  his  dress, 

His  daily  fare  as  delicate.  Alas ! 

He  picks  clean  teeth,  and,  busy  as  he  seems 
With  an  old  tavern  quill,  is  hungry  yet! 

The  rout  is  Folly’s  circle,  which  she  draws 


56 


THE  TASK. 


With  magic  wand.  So  potent  is  the  spell, 

That  none,  decoy’d  into  that  fatal  ring, 

Unless  by  Heaven’s  peculiar  grace,  escape. 

There  we  grow  early  grey,  but  never  wise ; 

There  form  connexions,  but  acquire  no  friend; 

Solicit  pleasure,  hopeless  of  success ; 

Waste  youth  in  occupations  only  fit 

For  second  childhood,  and  devote  old  age 

To  sports  which  only  childhood  could  excuse. 

There  they  are  happiest,  who  dissemble  best 
Their  weariness ; and  they  the  most  polite, 

Who  squander  time  and  treasure  with  a smile, 
Though  at  their  own  destruction.  She  that  asks 
Her  dear  five  hundred  friends,  contemns  them  all, 

And  hates  their  coming.  They  (what  can  they  less?) 
Make  just  reprisals ; and  with  cringe  and  shrug, 

And  bow  obsequious,  hide  their  hate  of  her. 

All  catch  the  frenzy,  downward  from  her  grace, 
Whose  flambeaux  flash  against  the  morning  skies,, 
And  gild  our  chamber  ceilings  as  they  pass, 

To  her  who,  frugal  only  that  her  thrift 
May  feed  excesses  she  can  ill  afford, 

Is  hackney’d  home  unlackey’d ; who,  in  haste 
Alighting,  turns  the  key  in  her  own  door, 

And,  at  the  watchman’s  lantern  borrowing  light, 

Finds  a cold  bed  her  only  comfort  left. 

Wives  beggar  husbands,  husbands  starve  their  wives, 

On  Fortune’s  velvet  altar  offering  up 

Their  last  poor  pittance — Fortune,  most  severe 

Of  goddesses  yet  known,  and  costlier  far 

Than  all  that  held  their  routs  in  Juno’s  heaven.— 

So  fare  we  in  this  prison-house — the  world; 

And  ’tis  a fearful  spectacle  to  see 
So  many  maniacs  dancing  in  their  chains. 


THE  TIMEPIECE. 


57 


They  gaze  upon  the  links  that  hold  them  fast, 
With  eyes  of  anguish,  execrate  their  lot, 

Then  shake  them  in  despair,  and  dance  again ! 

Now  basket  up  the  family  of  plagues 
That  waste  our  vitals ; peculation,  sale 
Of  honour,  perjury,  corruption,  frauds 
By  forgery,  by  subterfuge  of  law, 

By  tricks  and  lies  as  numerous  and  as  keen 
As  the  necessities  their  authors  feel ; 

Then  cast  them,  closely  bundled,  every  brat 
At  the  right  door.  Profusion  is  the  sire. 
Profusion  unrestrain’d,  with  all  that’s  base 
In  character,  has  litter’d  all  the  land, 

And  bred,  within  the  memory  of  no  few, 

A priesthood,  such  as  Baal’s  was  of  old, 

A people,  such  as  never  was  till  now. 

It  is  a hungry  vice : — it  eats  up  all 
That  gives  society  its  beauty,  strength, 
Convenience,  and  security,  and  use : 

Makes  men  mere  vermin,  worthy  to  be  trapp’d 
And  gibbeted,  as  fast  as  catchpole  claws 
Can  seize  the  slippery  prey:  unties  the  knot 
Of  union,  and  converts  the  sacred  band 
That  holds  mankind  together,  to  a scourge. 
Profusion,  deluging  a state  with  lusts 
Of  grossest  nature,  and  of  worst  effects, 
Prepares  it  for  its  ruin : hardens,  blinds, 

And  warps  the  consciences  of  public  men, 

Till  they  can  laugh  at  Virtue ; mock  the  fools 
That  trust  them ; and  in  the  end  disclose  a face 
That  would  have  shock’d  Credulity  herself, 
Unmask’d,  vouchsafing  this  their  sole  excuse — 
Since  all  alike  are  selfish,  why  not  they  ? 


58 


THE  TASK. 


This  does  Profusion,  and  the  accursed  cause 
Of  such  deep  mischief  has  itself  a cause. 

In  colleges  and  halls,  in  ancient  days, 

When  learning,  virtue,  piety,  and  truth, 

Were  precious,  and  inculcated  with  care, 

There  dwelt  a sage  call’d  Discipline.  His  head, 

Not  yet  by  time  completely  silver’d  o’er, 

Bespoke  him  past  the  bounds  of  freakish  youth, 

But  strong  for  service  still,  and  unimpair’d. 

His  eye  was  meek  and  gentle,  and  a smile 
Play’d  on  his  lips ; and  in  his  speech  was  heard 
Paternal  sweetness,  dignity,  and  love. 

The  occupation  dearest  to  his  heart 

Was  to  encourage  goodness.  He  would  stroke 

The  head  of  modest  and  ingenuous  worth, 

That  blush’d  at  its  own  praise  ; and  press  the  youth 
Close  to  his  side  that  pleased  him.  Learning  grew 
Beneath  his  care  a thriving,  vigorous  plant ; 

The  mind  was  well  inform’d,  the  passions  held 
Subordinate,  and  diligence  was  choice. 

If  e’er  it  chanced,  as  sometimes  chance  it  must, 

That  one  among  so  many  overleap’d 
The  limits  of  control,  his  gentle  eye 
Grew  stern,  and  darted  a severe  rebuke: 

His  frown  was  full  of  terror,  and  his  voice 
Shook  the  delinquent  with  such  fits  of  awe 
As  left  him  not  till  penitence  had  won 
Lost  favour  back  again,  and  closed  the  breach. 

But  Discipline,  a faithful  servant  long, 

Declined,  at  length,  into  the  vale  of  years : 

A palsy  struck  his  arm  ; his  sparkling  eye 

Was  quench’d  in  rheums  of  age;  his  voice,  unstrung, 

Grew  tremulous,  and  moved  derision  more 


THE  TIMEPIECE. 


59 


Than  reverence  in  perverse,  rebellious  youth 
So  colleges  and  halls  neglected  much 
Their  good  old  friend  ; and  Discipline  at  length, 
O’erlook’d  and  unemploy’d,  fell  sick  and  died. 
Then  Study  languish’d,  Emulation  slept, 

And  Virtue  fled.  The  schools  became  a scene 
Of  solemn  farce,  where  Ignorance  in  stilts, 

His  cap  well-lined  with  logic  not  his  own, 

With  parrot-tongue  perform’d  the  scholar’s  part, 
Proceeding  soon  a graduated  dunce. 

Then  compromise  had  place,  and  scrutiny 
Became  stone  blind ; precedence  went  in  truck, 
And  he  was  competent  whose  purse  was  so. 

A dissolution  of  all  bonds  ensued ; 

The  curbs  invented  for  the  mulish  mouth 
Of  headstrong  youth  were  broken  ; bars  and  bolts 
Grew  rusty  by  disuse  ; and  massy  gates 
Forgot  their  office,  opening  with  a touch ; 

Till  gowns  at  length  are  found  mere  masquerade, 
The  tassel’d  cap  and  the  spruce  band  a jest, 

A mockery  of  the  world ! What  need  of  these 
For  gamesters,  jockeys,  brothellers  impure, 
Spendthrifts,  and  booted  sportsmen,  oftener  seen 
With  belted  waist,  and  pointers  at  their  heels, 
Than  in  the  bounds  of  duty  ? What  was  learn’d, 
If  aught  was  learn’d  in  childhood,  is  forgot; 

And  such  expense  as  pinches  parents  blue, 

And  mortifies  the  liberal  hand  of  love, 

Is  squander’d  in  pursuit  of  idle  sports 
And  vicious  pleasures  ; buys  the  boy  a name 
That  sits  a stigma  on  his  father’s  house, 

And  clings  through  life  inseparably  close 
To  him  that  wears  it.  What  can  after-games 


60 


THE  TASK. 


Of  riper  joys,  and  commerce  with  the  world, 

The  lewd,  vain  world,  that  must  receive  him  soon. 
Add  to  such  erudition,  thus  acquired, 

Where  science  and  where  virtue  are  profess’d? 

They  may  confirm  his  habits,  rivet  fast 
His  folly,  but  to  spoil  him  is  a task 
That  bids  defiance  to  the  united  powers 
Of  fashion,  dissipation,  taverns,  stews. 

Now  blame  we  most  the  nurselings  or  the  nurse? 
The  children  crook’d,  and  twisted,  and  deform’d, 
Through  want  of  care ; or  her,  whose  winking  eye 
And  slumbering  oscitancy  mars  the  brood? 

The  nurse,  no  doubt.  Regardless  of  her  charge, 
She  needs  herself  correction ; needs  to  learn 
That  it  is  dangerous  sporting  with  the  world, 

With  things  so  sacred  as  a nation’s  trust, 

The  nurture  of  her  youth,  her  dearest  pledge. 

All  are  not  such.  I had  a brother  once- 
Peace  to  the  memory  of  a man  of  worth, 

A man  of  letters,  and  of  manners  too ! 

Of  manners  sweet  as  Virtue  always  wears 
When  gay  Good-nature  dresses  her  in  smiles. 

He  graced  a college,*  in  which  order  yet 
Was  sacred;  and  was  honour’d,  loved,  and  wept 
By  more  than  one,  themselves  conspicuous  there. 
Some  minds  are  temper’d  happily,  and  mix’d 
With  such  ingredients  of  good  sense,  and  taste 
Of  what  is  excellent  in  man,  they  thirst 
With  such  a zeal  to  be  what  they  approve, 

That  no  restraints  can  circumscribe  them  more 
Than  they  themselves  by  choice,  for  wisdom’s  sake. 
Nor  can  example  hurt  them:  what  they  see 


Bene’t  Coll.  Cambridge. 


THE  TIMEPIECE. 


61 


Of  vice  in  others  but  enhancing  more 
The  charms  of  virtue  in  their  just  esteem. 

If  such  escape  contagion,  and  emerge 
Pure  from  so  foul  a pool  to  shine  abroad, 

And  give  the  world  their  talents  and  themselves, 
Small  thanks  to  those  whose  negligence  or  sloth 
Exposed  their  inexperience  to  the  snare. 

And  left  them  to  an  undirected  choice. 

See,  then,  the  quiver  broken  and  decay’d, 

In  which  are  kept  our  arrows  ! Rusting  there 
In  wild  disorder,  and  unfit  for  use  ; 

What  wonder,  if,  discharged  into  the  world, 

They  shame  their  shooters  with  a random  flight, 
Their  points  obtuse,  and  feathers  drunk  with  wine ! 
Well  may  the  church  wage  unsuccessful  war, 

With  such  artillery  arm’d.  Vice  parries  wide 
The  undreaded  volley  with  a sword  of  straw, 

And  stands  an  impudent  and  fearless  mark. 

Have  we  not  track’d  the  felon  home,  and  found 
His  birthplace  and  his  dam?  The  country  mourns, 
Mourns  because  every  plague  that  can  infest 
Society,  and  that  saps  and  worms  the  base 
Of  the  edifice,  that  Policy  has  raised, 

Swarms  in  all  quarters ; meets  the  eye,  the  ear, 

And  suffocates  the  breath,  at  every  turn. 

Profusion  breeds  them  ; and  the  cause  itself 
Of  that  calamitous  mischief  has  been  found  : 

Found,  too,  where  most  offensive,  in  the  skirts 
Of  the  robed  pedagogue  ! Else  let  the  arraign’d 
Stand  up  unconscious,  and  refute  the  charge. 

So  when  the  Jewish  leader  stretch’d  his  arm, 

And  waved  his  rod  divine,  a race  obscene, 

Spawn’d  in  the  muddy  beds  of  Nile,  came  forth, 

6 


62 


THE  TASK. 


Polluting  Egypt;  gardens,  fields,  and  plains 
Were  cover’d  with  the  pest;  the  streets  were  fill5 
The  croaking  nuisance  lurk’d  in  every  nook; 

Nor  palaces,  nor  even  chambers  ’scaped; 

And  the  land  stank — so  numerous  was  the  fry* 


THE  TASK. 

BOOK  III.— THE  GARDEN. 


ARGUMENT. 

Self-recollection  and  reproof.  Address  to  domestic  happiness. 
Some  account  of  myself.  The  vanity  of  many  of  their  pursuits  who 
are  reputed  wise.  Justification  of  my  censures.  Divine  illumination 
necessary  to  the  most  expert  philosopher.  The  question,  What  is 
truth?  answered  by  other  questions.  Domestic  happiness  addressed 
again.  Few  lovers  of  the  country.  My  tame  hare.  Occupations  of 
a retired  gentleman  in  his  garden.  Pruning.  Farming.  Green- 
house. Sowing  of  flower  seeds.  The  country  preferable  to  the  town, 
even  in  the  winter.  Reasons  why  it  is  deserted  at  that  season. 
Ruinous  effects  of  gaming,  and  of  expensive  improvement.  Book 
concludes  with  an  apostrophe  to  the  metropolis. 


64 


THE  TASK. 


BOOK  III. THE  GARDEN. 

As  one,  who  long  in  thickets  and  in  brakes 
Entangled,  winds  now  this  way  and  now  that 
His  devious  course  uncertain,  seeking  home ; 

Or,  having  long  in  miry  ways  been  foil’d 
And  sore  discomfited,  from  slough  to  slough 
Plunging,  and  half  despairing  of  escape  ; 

If  chance  at  length  he  find  a greensward  smooth 
And  faithful  to  the  foot,  his  spirits  rise, 

He  cherups  brisk  his  ear-erecting  steed, 

And  winds  his  way  with  pleasure  and  with  ease 
So  I,  designing  other  themes,  and  call’d 
To  adorn  the  Sofa  with  eulogium  due, 

To  tell  its  slumbers,  and  to  paint  its  dreams, 
Have  rambled  wide : in  country,  city,  seat 
Of  academic  fame,  (howe’er  deserved,) 

Long  held,  and  scarcely  disengaged  at  last. 

But  now  with  pleasant  pace  a cleanlier  road 
I mean  to  tread.  I feel  myself  at  large, 
Courageous,  and  refresh’d  for  future  toil, 

If  toil  await  me,  or  if  dangers  new. 

Since  pulpits  fail,  and  sounding  boards  reflect 
Most  part  an  empty  ineffectual  sound, 

What  chance  that  I,  to  fame  so  little  known, 

6*  65 


66 


THE  TASK. 


Nor  conversant  with  men  or  manners  much, 

Should  speak  to  purpose,  or  with  better  hope 
Crack  the  satiric  thong?  ’Twere  wiser  far 
For  me,  enamour’d  of  sequester’d  scenes, 

And  charm’d  with  rural  beauty,  to  repose, 

Where  chance  may  throw  me,  beneath  elm  or  vine, 
My  languid  limbs,  when  summer  sears  the  plains  ; 
Or,  when  rough  winter  rages,  on  the  soft 
And  shelter’d  Sofa,  while  the  nitrous  air 
Feeds  a blue  flame,  and  makes  a cheerful  hearth ; 
There,  undisturb’d  by  Folly,  and  apprized 
How  great  the  danger  of  disturbing  her, 

To  muse  in  silence,  or  at  least  confine 
Kemarks,  that  gall  so  many,  to  the  few 
My  partners  in  retreat.  Disgust  conceal’d 
Is  oft-times  proof  of  wisdom,  when  the  fault 
Is  obstinate,  and  cure  beyond  our  reach. 

Domestic  Happiness,  thou  only  bliss 
Of  Paradise  that  hast  survived  the  fall ! 

Though  few  now  taste  thee  unimpair’d  and  pure, 

Or  tasting  long  enjoy  thee  ! too  infirm, 

Or  too  incautious,  to  preserve  thy  sweets 
Unmix’d  with  drops  of  bitter,  which  neglect 
Or  temper  sheds  into  thy  crystal  cup ; 

Thou  art  the  nurse  of  Virtue  ! in  thine  arms 
She  smiles,  appearing,  as  in  truth  she  is, 
Heaven-born,  and  destined  to  the  skies  again. 

Thou  art  not  known  where  Pleasure  is  adored, 
That  reeling  goddess  with  the  zoneless  waist 
And  wandering  eyes,  still  leaning  on  the  arm 
Of  Novelty,  her  fickle,  frail  support; 

For  thou  art  meek  and  constant,  hating  change, 

And  finding,  in  the  calm  of  truth- tried  love, 

Joys  that  her  stormy  raptures  never  yield. 


THE  GARDEN. 


67 


Forsaking  thee,  what  shipwreck  have  we  made 
Of  honour,  dignity,  and  fair  renown ! 

Till  prostitution  elbows  us  aside 

In  all  our  crowded  streets ; and  senates  seem 

Convened  for  purposes  of  empire  less, 

Than  to  release  the  adult’ress  from  her  bond. 

The  adult’ress ! what  a theme  for  angry  verse ! 
What  provocation  to  the  indignant  heart, 

That  feels  for  injured  love ! but  I disdain 
The  nauseous  task,  to  paint  her  as  she  is, 

Cruel,  abandon’d,  glorying  in  her  shame  ! 

No  : — let  her  pass,  and,  charioted  along 
In  guilty  splendour,  shake  the  public  ways ; 

The  frequency  of  crimes  has  wash’d  them  white, 
And  verse  of  mine  shall  never  brand  the  wretch, 
Whom  matrons  now  of  character  unsmirch’d, 

And  chaste  themselves,  are  not  ashamed  to  own. 
Virtue  and  vice  had  boundaries  in  old  time, 

Not  to  be  pass’d:  and  she  that  had  renounced 
Her  sex’s  honour  was  renounced  herself 
By  all  that  prized  it;  not  for  prudery’s  sake, 

But  dignity’s,  resentful  of  the  wrong. 

’Twas  hard,  perhaps,  on  here  and  there  a waif, 
Desirous  to  return,  and  not  received : 

But  was  a wholesome  rigour  in  the  main, 

And  taught  the  unblemish’d  to  preserve  with  care 
That  purity,  whose  loss  was  loss  of  all. 

Men,  too,  were  nice  of  honour  in  those  days, 

And  judged  offenders  well.  Then  he  that  sharp’d, 
And  pocketed  a prize  by  fraud  obtain’d, 

Was  mark’d  and  shunn’d  as  odious.  He  that  sold 
His  country,  or  was  slack  when  she  required 
His  every  nerve  in  action  and  at  stretch, 

Paid,  with  the  blood  that  he  had  basely  spared 


68 


THE  TASK. 


The  price  of  his  default.  But  now — yes,  now — 

We  are  become  so  candid  and  so  fair, 

So  liberal  in  construction,  and  so  rich 
In  Christian  charity,  (good-natured  age!) 

That  they  are  safe,  sinners  of  either  sex, 

Transgress  what  laws  they  may.  Well-dress’d,  well-bred, 
Well-equipaged,  is  ticket  good  enough 
To  pass  us  readily  through  every  door. 

Hypocrisy,  detest  her  as  we  may, 

(And  no  man’s  hatred  ever  wrong’d  her  yet,) 

May  claim  this  merit  still — that  she  admits 
The  worth  of  what  she  mimics  with  such  care, 

And  thus  gives  virtue  indirect  applause ; 

But  she  has  burnt  her  mask,  not  needed  here, 

Where  vice  has  such  allowance,  that  her  shifts 
And  specious  semblances  have  lost  their  use. 

I was  a stricken  deer,  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since.  With  many  an  arrow  deep  infix’d 
My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I withdrew 
To  seek  a tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 

There  was  I found  by  One  who  had  himself 
Been  hurt  by  the  archers.  In  His  side  He  bore, 

And  in  His  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 

With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts, 

He  drew  them  forth,  and  heal’d,  and  bade  me  live. 
Since  then,  with  few  associates,  in  remote 
And  silent  woods  I wander,  far  from  those 
My  former  partners  of  the  peopled  scene  ; 

With  few  associates,  and  not  wishing  more. 

Here  much  I ruminate,  as  much  I may, 

With  other  views  of  men  and  manners  now 
Than  once,  and  others  of  a life  to  come. 

I see  that  all  are  wanderers,  gone  astray 
Each  in  his  own  delusions  ; they  are  lost 


THE  GARDEN. 


69 


In  chase  of  fancied  happiness,  still  woo’d 
And  never  won.  Dream  after  dream  ensues  ; 

And  still  they  dream  that  they  shall  still  succeed, 
And  still  are  disappointed.  Rings  the  world 
With  the  vain  stir.  I sum  up  half  mankind, 

And  add  two-thirds  of  the  remaining  half, 

And  find  the  total  of  their  hopes  and  fears 
Dreams,  empty  dreams.  The  million  flit  as  gay 
As  if  created,  only  like  the  fly 
That  spreads  his  motley  wings  in  the  eye  of  noon, 
To  sport  their  season,  and  be  seen  no  more. 

The  rest  are  sober  dreamers,  grave  and  wise, 

And  pregnant  with  discoveries  new  and  rare. 

Some  write  a narrative  of  wars,  and  feats 
Of  heroes  little  known ; and  call  the  rant 
A history;  describe  the  man,  of  whom 
His  own  coevals  took  but  little  note, 

And  paint  his  person,  character,  and  views, 

As  they  had  known  him  from  his  mother’s  womb. 
They  disentangle  from  the  puzzled  skein, 

In  which  obscurity  has  wrapp’d  them  up, 

The  threads  of  politic  and  shrewd  design, 

That  ran  through  all  his  purposes,  and  charge 
His  mind  with  meanings  that  he  never  had, 

Or,  having,  kept  conceal’d.  Some  drill  and  bore 
The  solid  earth,  and  from  the  strata  there 
Extract  a register,  by  which  we  learn, 

That  He  who  made  it,  and  reveal’d  its  date 
To  Moses,  was  mistaken  in  its  age. 

Some,  more  acute,  and  more  industrious  still, 
Contrive  creation  ; travel  Nature  up 
To  the  sharp  peak  of  her  sublimest  height, 

And  tell  us  whence  the  stars  ; why  some  are  fix’d, 
And  planetary  some  ; what  gave  them  first 


70 


THE  TASK. 


Rotation,  from  what  fountain  flow’d  their  light. 
Great  contest  follows,  and  much  learned  dust 
Involves  the  combatants ; each  claiming  truth, 

And  truth  disclaiming  both.  And  thus  they  spend 
The  little  wick  of  life’s  poor  shallow  lamp 
In  playing  tricks  with  Nature,  giving  laws 
To  distant  worlds,  and  trifling  in  their  own. 

Is’t  not  a pity  now,  that  tickling  rheums 
Should  ever  tease  the  lungs,  and  blear  the  sight 
Of  oracles  like  these  ? Great  pity,  too, 

That,  having  wielded  the  elements,  and  built 
A thousand  systems,  each  in  his  own  way, 

They  should  go  out  in  fume,  and  be  forgot  ? 

Ah ! what  is  life  thus  spent  ? and  what  are  they 
But  frantic  who  thus  spend  it?  all  for  smoke — 
Eternity  for  bubbles  proves,  at  last, 

A senseless  bargain.  When  I see  such  games 
Play’d  by  the  creatures  of  a power,  who  swears 
That  He  will  judge  the  earth,  and  call  the  fool 
To  a sharp  reckoning,  that  has  lived  in  vain ; 

And  when  I weigh  this  seeming  wisdom  well, 

And  prove  it  in  the  infallible  result 
So  hollow  and  so  false — I feel  my  heart 
Dissolve  in  pity,  and  account  the  learn’d, 

If  this  be  learning,  most  of  all  deceived. 

Great  crimes  alarm  the  conscience,  but  it  sleeps, 
While  thoughtful  man  is  plausibly  amused. 

Defend  me,  therefore,  common  sense,  say  I, 

From  reveries  so  airy,  from  the  toil 
Of  dropping  buckets  into  empty  wells, 

And  growing  old  in  drawing  nothing  up ! 

’Twere  well,  says  one  sage  erudite,  profound, 
Terribly  arch’d,  and  aquiline  his  nose, 

And  overbuilt  with  most  impending  brows, — 


THE  GARDEN. 


71 


’Twere  well,  could  you  permit  the  world  to  live 
As  the  world  pleases : what’s  the  world  to  you  ? 

Much.  I was  born  of  woman,  and  drew  milk, 

As  sweet  as  charity,  from  human  breasts. 

I think,  articulate,  I laugh  and  weep, 

And  exercise  all  functions  of  a man. 

How  then  should  I and  any  man  that  lives 
Be  strangers  to  each  other?  Pierce  my  vein, 

Take  of  the  crimson  stream  meandering  there. 

And  catechise  it  well ; apply  thy  glass, 

Search  it,  and  prove  now  if  it  be  not  blood 
Congenial  with  thine  own:  and,  if  it  be, 

What  edge  of  subtlety  canst  thou  suppose 
Keen  enough,  wise  and  skilful  as  thou  art, 

To  cut  the  link  of  brotherhood,  by  which 
One  common  Maker  bound  me  to  the  kind? 

True ; I am  no  proficient,  I confess, 

In  arts  like  yours.  I cannot  call  the  swift 
And  perilous  lightnings  from  the  angry  clouds, 

And  bid  them  hide  themselves  in  earth  beneath ; 

I cannot  analyse  the  air,  nor  catch 
The  parallax  of  yonder  luminous  point, 

That  seems  half  quench’d  in  the  immense  abyss : 

Such  powers  I boast  not,  neither  can  I rest 
A silent  witness  of  the  headlong  rage, 

Or  heedless  folly,  by  which  thousands  die, 

Bone  of  my  bone,  and  kindred  souls  to  mine. 

God  never  meant  that  man  should  scale  the  Heavens 
By  strides  of  human  wisdom,  in  His  works, 

Though  wondrous : He  commands  us  in  His  word 
To  seek  Him  rather,  where  His  mercy  shines. 

The  mind,  indeed,  enlighten’d  from  above, 

Views  Him  in  all ; ascribes  to  the  grand  cause 
The  grand  effect;  acknowledges  with  joy 


72 


THE  TASK. 


His  manner,  and  with  rapture  tastes  His  style. 

But  never  yet  did  philosophic  tube, 

That  brings  the  planets  home  into  the  eye 
Of  Observation,  and  discovers,  else 
Not  visible,  His  family  of  worlds, 

Discover  Him  that  rules  them ; such  a veil 
Hangs  over  mortal  eyes,  blind  from  the  birth, 

And  dark  in  things  divine.  Full  often,  too, 

Our  wayward  intellect,  the  more  we  learn 
Of  Nature,  overlooks  her  Author  more; 

From  instrumental  causes  proud  to  draw 
Conclusions  retrograde,  and  mad  mistake. 

But  if  His  word  once  teach  us,  shoot  a ray 
Through  all  the  heart’s  dark  chambers,  and  reveal 
Truths  undiscern’d  but  by  that  holy  light, 

Then  all  is  plain.  Philosophy,  baptized 
In  the  pure  fountain  of  eternal  love, 

Has  eyes  indeed ; and,  viewing  all  she  sees 
As  meant  to  indicate  a God  to  man, 

Gives  Him  his  praise,  and  forfeits  not  her  own. 
Learning  has  borne  such  fruit,  in  other  days, 

On  all  her  branches ; piety  has  found 
Friends  in  the  friends  of  science,  and  true  prayer 
Has  flow’d  from  lips  wet  with  Castalian  dews. 
Such  was  thy  wisdom,  Newton,  childlike  sage! 
Sagacious  reader  of  the  works  of  God, 

And  in  His  word  sagacious.  Such  too  thine, 
Milton,  whose  genius  had  angelic  wings, 

And  fed  on  manna!  And  such  thine,  in  whom 
Our  British  Themis  gloried  with  just  cause, 
Immortal  Hale ! for  deep  discernment  praised, 

And  sound  integrity,  not  more  than  famed 
For  sanctity  of  manners  undefiled. 

All  flesh' is  grass,  and  all  its  glory  fades 


THE  GARDEN. 


Like  the  fair  flower  dishevell’d  in  the  wind; 
Riches  have  wings,  and  grandeur  is  a dream. 

The  man  we  celebrate  must  find  a tomb, 

And  we,  that  worship  him,  ignoble  graves. 
Nothing  is  proof  against  the  general  curse 
Of  vanity,  that  seizes  all  below. 

The  only  amaranthine  flower  on  earth 
Is  virtue ; the  only  lasting  treasure,  truth. 

But  what  is  truth?  ’Twas  Pilate’s  question  put 
To  Truth  itself,  that  deign’d  him  no  reply. 

And  wherefore?  Will  not  God  impart  His  light 
To  them  that  ask  it? — Freely — ’tis  His  joy, 

His  glory,  and  His  nature  to  impart. 

But  to  the  proud,  uncandid,  insincere, 

Or  negligent  inquirer,  not  a spark. 

What’s  that  which  brings  contempt  upon  a book, 
And  him  who  writes  it,  though  the  style  be  neat, 
The  method  clear,  and  argument  exact? — 

That  makes  a minister  in  holy  things 
The  joy  of  many,  and  the  dread  of  more, 

His  name  a theme  for  praise  and  for  reproach  ? — 
That,  while  it  gives  us  worth  in  God’s  account, 
Depreciates  and  undoes  us  in  our  own  ? 

What  pearl  is  it,  that  rich  men  cannot  buy, 

That  learning  is  too  proud  to  gather  up ; 

But  which  the  poor,  and  the  despised  of  all, 

Seek  and  obtain,  and  often  find  unsought  ? 

Tell  me — and  I will  tell  thee  what  is  truth. 

O friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man, 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace, 
Domestic  life  in  rural  pleasure  pass’d ! 

Few  know  thy  value,  and  few  taste  thy  sweets ; 
Though  many  boast  thy  favours,  and  affect 
To  understand  and  choose  thee  for  their  own. . 

7 


74 


THE  TASK. 


Bat  foolish  man  foregoes  his  proper  bliss, 

E’en  as  his  first  progenitor,  and  quits, 

Though  placed  in  Paradise,  (for  earth  has  still 
Some  traces  of  her  youthful  beauty  left,) 
Substantial  happiness  for  transient  joy. 

Scenes  form’d  for  contemplation,  and  to  nurse 
The  growing  seeds  of  wisdom ; that  suggest, 

By  every  pleasing  image  they  present, 

Reflections  such  as  meliorate  the  heart, 

Compose  the  passions,  and  exalt  the  mind; 

Scenes  such  as  these  ’tis  his  supreme  delight 
To  fill  with  riot,  and  defile  with  blood. 

Should  some  contagion,  kind  to  the  poor  brutes 
We  persecute,  annihilate  the  tribes 
That  draw  the  sportsman  over  hill  and  dale, 
Fearless,  and  rapt  away  from  all  his  cares ; 

Should  never  game-fowl  hatch  her  eggs  again, 

Nor  baited  hook  deceive  the  fish’s  eye; 

Could  pageantry  and  dance,  and  feast  and  song, 

Be  quell’d  in  all  our  summer-months’  retreats ; 
How  many  self-deluded  nymphs  and  swains, 

Who  dream  they  have  a taste  for  fields  and  groves, 
Would  find  them  hideous  nurseries  of  the  spleen, 
And  crowd  the  roads,  impatient  for  the  town ! 
They  love  the  country,  and  none  else,  who  seek 
For  their  own  sake  its  silence,  and  its  shade. 
Delights  which  who  would  leave,  that  has  a heart 
Susceptible  of  pity,  or  a mind 
Cultured,  and  capable  of  sober  thought, 

For  all  the  savage  din  of  the  swift  pack, 

And  clamours  of  the  field? — Detested  sport, 

That  owes  its  pleasures  to  another’s  pain ; 

That  feeds  upon  the  sobs  and  dying  shrieks 
Of  harmless  nature,  dumb,  but  yet  endued 


THE  GARDEN. 


75 


With  eloquence,  that  agonies  inspire, 

Of  silent  tears  and  heart-distending  sighs ! 

Vain  tears,  alas  ! and  sighs  that  never  find 
A corresponding  tone  in  jovial  souls! 

Well — one  at  least  is  safe.  One  shelter’d  hare 
Has  never  heard  the  sanguinary  yell 
Of  cruel  man,  exulting  in  her  woes; 

Innocent  partner  of  my  peaceful  home, 

Whom  ten  long  years’  experience  of  my  care 
Has  made  at  last  familiar;  she  has  lost 
Much  of  her  vigilant  instinctive  dread, 

Not  needful  here,  beneath  a roof  like  mine. 

Yes — thou  may’st  eat  thy  bread,  and  lick  the  hand 
That  feeds  thee;  thou  may’st  frolic  on  the  floor 
At  evening,  and  at  night  retire  secure 
To  thy  straw  couch,  and  slumber  unalarm’d; 

For  I have  gain’d  thy  confidence,  have  pledged 
All  that  is  human  in  me  to  protect 
Thine  unsuspecting  gratitude  and  love. 

If  I survive  thee,  I will  dig  thy  grave ; 

And,  when  I place  thee  in  it,  sighing  say, 

I knew  at  least  one  hare  that  had  a friend. 

How  various  his  employments,  whom  the  world 
Calls  idle;  and  who  justly  in  return 
Esteems  that  busy  world  an  idler  too ! 

Friends,  books,  a garden,  and,  perhaps,  his  pen, 
Delightful  industry  enjoy’d  at  home, 

And  Nature  in  her  cultivated  trim 
Dress’d  to  his  taste,  inviting  him  abroad — 

Can  he  want  occupation,  who  has  these? 

Will  he  be  idle,  who  has  much  to  enjoy? 

Me,  therefore,  studious  of  laborious  ease, 

Not  slothful,  happy  to  deceive  the  time, 

Not  waste  it,  and  aware  that  human  life 


THE  TASK. 


8 


Is  but  a loan  to  be  repaid  with  use, 

When  He  shall  call  His  debtors  to  account, 

From  whom  are  all  our  blessings,  business  finds 
E’en  here : while  sedulous  I seek  to  improve, 

At  least  neglect  not,  or  leave  unemploy’d, 

The  mind  He  gave  me ; driving  it,  though  slack 
Too  oft,  and  much  impeded  in  its  work 
By  causes  not  to  be  divulged  in  vain, 

To  its  just  point — the  service  of  mankind. 

He  that  attends  to  his  interior  self, 

That  has  a heart  and  keeps  it;  has  a mind 
That  hungers,  and  supplies  it ; and  who  seeks 
A social,  not  a dissipated  life, 

Has  business  ; feels  himself  engaged  to  achieve 
No  unimportant,  though  a silent,  task. 

A life  all  turbulence  and  noise,  may  seem, 

To  him  that  leads  it,  wise,  and  to  be  praised ; 

But  wisdom  is  a pearl  with  most  success 
Sought  in  still  water,  and  beneath  clear  skies. 

He  that  is  ever  occupied  in  storms, 

Or  dives  not  for  it,  or  brings  up  instead, 

Vainly  industrious,  a disgraceful  prize. 

The  morning  finds  the  self-sequester’d  man 
Fresh  for  his  task,  intend  what  task  he  may. 
Whether  inclement  seasons  recommend 
His  warm  but  simple  home,  where  he  enjoys, 
With  her  who  shares  his  pleasures  and  his  heart, 
Sweet  converse,  sipping  calm  the  fragrant  lymph 
Which  neatly  she  prepares ; then  to  his  book 
Well  chosen,  and  not  sullenly  perused 
In  selfish  silence,  but  imparted  oft, 

As  aught  occurs,  that  she  may  smile  to  hear, 

Or  turn  to  nourishment,  digested  well. 

Or  if  the  garden  with  its  many  cares, 


THE  GARDEN. 


77 


All  well  repaid,  demand  him,  he  attends 

The  welcome  call,  conscious  how  much  the  hand 

Of  lubbard  Labour  needs  his  watchful  eye, 

Oft  loitering  lazily,  if  not  o’erseen, 

Or  misapplying  his  unskilful  strength. 

Nor  does  he  govern  only  or  direct, 

But  much  performs  himself.  No  works,  indeed, 
That  ask  robust,  tough  sinews,  bred  to  toil, 

Servile  employ ; but  such  as  may  amuse, 

Not  tire,  demanding  rather  skill  than  force. 

Proud  of  his  well-spread  walls,  he  views  his  trees 
That  meet,  (no  barren  interval  between,) 

With  pleasure  more  than  e’en  their  fruits  afford; 
Which,  save  himself  who  trains  them,  none  can  feel. 
These,  therefore,  are  his  own  peculiar  charge ; 

No  meaner  hand  may  discipline  the  shoots, 

None  but  his  steel  approach  them.  What  is  weak, 
Distemper’d,  or  has  lost  prolific  powers, 

Impair’d  by  age,  his  unrelenting  hand 
Dooms  to  the  knife:  nor  does  he  spare  the  soft 
And  succulent,  that  feeds  its  giant  growth, 

But  barren,  at  the  expense  of  neighbouring  twigs 
Less  ostentatious,  and  yet  studded  thick 
With  hopeful  gems.  The  rest,  no  portion  left 
That  may  disgrace  his  art,  or  disappoint 
Large  expectation,  he  disposes  neat 
At  measured  distances,  that  air  and  sun, 

Admitted  freely,  may  afford  their  aid, 

And  ventilate  and  warm  the  swelling  buds. 

Hence  Summer  has  her  riches,  Autumn  hence, 

And  hence  e’en  Winter  fills  his  wither’d  hand 
With  blushing  fruits,  and  plenty  not  his  own.* 

Fair  recompense  of  labour  well  bestow’d, 

* “ Miraturque  novos  fructus  et  non  sua  poma.” — Virg. 

7* 


78 


THE  TASK. 


And  .wise  precaution,  which  a clime  so  rude 
Makes  needful  still ; whose  Spring  is  but  the  child 
Of  churlish  Winter,  in  her  fro  ward  moods 
Discovering  much  the  temper  of  her  sire. 

For  oft,  as  if  in  her  the  stream  of  mild 
Maternal  nature  had  reversed  its  course, 

She  brings  her  infants  forth  with  many  smiles ; 

But,  once  deliver’d,  kills  them  with  a frown. 

He,  therefore,  timely  warn’d  himself,  supplies 
Her  want  of  care,  screening  and  keeping  warm 
The  plenteous  bloom,  that  no  rough  blast  may  sweep 
His  garlands  from  the  boughs.  Again,  as  oft 
As  the  Sun  peeps,  and  vernal  airs  breathe  mild, 

The  fence  withdrawn,  he  gives  them  every  beam, 
And  spreads  his  hopes  before  the  blaze  of  day. 

To  raise  the  prickly  and  green-coated  gourd, 

So  grateful  to  the  palate,  and  when  rare 
So  coveted,  else  base  and  disesteem’d — 

Food  for  the  vulgar  merely — is  an  art 
That  toiling  ages  have  but  just  matured, 

And  at  this  moment  unassay’d  in  song. 

Yet  gnats  have  had,  and  frogs  and  mice,  long  since, 
Their  eulogy ; those  sang  the  Mantuan  Bard, 

And  these  the  Grecian,  in  ennobling  strains ; 

And  in  thy  numbers,  Phillips,  shines  for  aye 
The  solitary  shilling.  Pardon,  then, 

Ye  sage  dispensers  of  poetic  fame! 

The  ambition  of  one  meaner  far,  whose  powers, 
Presuming  an  attempt  not  less  sublime, 

Pant  for  the  praise  of  dressing  to  the  taste 
Of  critic  appetite,  no  sordid  fare, 

A cucumber,  while  costly  yet  and  scarce. 

The  stable  yields  a stercoraceous  heap, 
Impregnated  with  quick-fermenting  salts, 


THE  GARDEN. 


79 


And  potent  to  resist  the  freezing  blast : 

For,  ere  the  beech  and  elm  have  cast  their  leaf, 
Deciduous,  and  when  now  November  dark 
Checks  vegetation  in  the  torpid  plant 
Exposed'  to  his  cold  breath,  the  task  begins. 

Warily,  therefore,  and  with  prudent  heed, 

He  seeks  a favour’d  spot ; that  where  he  builds 
The  agglomerated  pile  his  frame  may  front 
The  Sun’s  meridian  disk,  and  at  the  back 
Enjoy  close  shelter,  wall,  or  reeds,  or  hedge 
Impervious  to  the  wind.  First  he  bids  spread 
Dry  fern  or  litter’d  hay,  that  may  imbibe 
The  ascending  damps ; then  leisurely  impose, 

And  lightly,  shaking  it  with  agile  hand 
From  the  full  fork,  the  saturated  straw. 

What  longest  binds  the  closest,  forms  secure 
The  shapely  side,  that,  as  it  rises,  takes, 

By  just  degrees,  an  overhanging  breadth, 

Sheltering  the  base  with  its  projected  eaves; 

The  uplifted  frame  compact  at  every  joint, 

And  overlaid  with  clear  translucent  glass, 

He  settles  next  upon  the  sloping  mount, 

Whose  sharp  declivity  shoots  off  secure 
From  the  dash’d  pane  the  deluge  as  it  falls. 

He  shuts  it  close,  and  the  first  labour  ends. 

Thrice  must  the  voluble  and  restless  earth 
Spin  round  upon  her  axle,  ere  the  warmth, 

Slow  gathering  in  the  midst,  through  the  square  mass 
Diffused,  attain  the  service  : when,  behold ! 

A pestilent  and  most  corrosive  steam, 

Like  a gross  fog  Boeotian,  rising  fast, 

And  fast  condensed  upon  the  dewy  sash, 

Asks  egress ; which  obtain’d,  the  overcharged 
And  drench’d  conservatory  breathes  abroad, 


80 


THE  TASK. 


In  volumes  wheeling  slow,  the  vapour  dank ; 

And,  purified,  rejoices  to  have  lost 
Its  foul  inhabitant.  But  to  assuage 
The  impatient  fervour,  which  it  first  conceives 
Within  its  reeking  bosom,  threatening  death 
To  his  young  hopes,  requires  discreet  delay. 
Experience,  slow  preceptress,  teaching  oft 
The  way  to  glory  by  miscarriage  foul, 

Must  prompt  him,  and  admonish  how  to  catch 
The  auspicious  moment,  when  the  temper’d  heat, 
Friendly  to  vital  motion,  may  afford 
Soft  fomentation,  and  invite  the  seed. 

The  seed,  selected  wisely,  plump,  and  smooth, 

And  glossy,  he  commits  to  pots  of  size 
Diminutive,  well  filled  with  well-prepared 
And  fruitful  soil,  that  has  been  treasured  long, 

And  drank  no  moisture  from  the  dripping  clouds. 
These  on  the  warm  and  genial  earth,  that  hides 
The  smoking  manure,  and  o’erspreads  it  all, 

He  places  lightly,  and,  as  time  subdues 
The  rage  of  fermentation,  plunges  deep 
In  the  soft  medium,  till  they  stand  immersed. 

Then  rise  the  tender  germs,  upstarting  quick, 

And  spreading  wide  their  spongy  lobes ; at  first 
Pale,  wan,  and  livid ; but  assuming  soon, 

If  fann’d  by  balmy  and  nutritious  air, 

Strain’d  through  the  friendly  mats,  a vivid  green. 
Two  leaves  produced,  two  rough  indented  leaves, 
Cautious  he  pinches  from  the  second  stalk 
A pimple,  that  portends  a future  sprout, 

And  interdicts  its  growth.  Thence  straight  succeed 
The  branches,  sturdy  to  his  utmost  wish ; 

Prolific  all,  and  harbingers  of  more. 

The  crowded  roots  demand  enlargement  now, 


THE  GARDEN. 


81 


And  transplantation  in  an  ampler  space. 

Indulged  in  what  they  wish,  they  soon  supply 
Large  foliage,  overshadowing  golden  flowers, 

Blown  on  the  summit  of  the  apparent  fruit. 

These  have  their  sexes ! and,  when  summer  shines, 
The  bee  transports  the  fertilizing  meal 
From  flower  to  flower,  and  e’en  the  breathing  air 
Wafts  the  rich  prize  to  its  appointed  use. 

Not  so  when  winter  scowls.  Assistant  Art 
Then  acts  in  Nature’s  office,  brings  to  pass 
The  glad  espousals,  and  ensures  the  crop. 

Grudge  not,  ye  rich,  (since  Luxury  must  have 
His  dainties,  and  the  world’s  more  numerous  half 
Lives  by  contriving  delicates  for  you,) 

Grudge  not  the  cost.  Ye  little  know  the  cares, 

The  vigilance,  the  labour,  and  the  skill, 

That,  day  and  night,  are  exercised,  and  hang 
Upon  the  ticklish  balance  of  suspense, 

That  ye  may  garnish  your  profuse  regales 
With  summer  fruits  brought  forth  by  wintry  suns. 

Ten  thousand  dangers  lie  in  wait  to  thwart 
The  process.  Heat  and  cold,  and  wind  and  steam, 
Moisture  and  drought,  mice,  worms,  and  swarming  flies, 
Minute  as  dust,  and  numberless,  oft  work 
Dire  disappointment,  that  admits  no  cure, 

And  which  no  care  can  obviate.  It  were  long, 

Too  long,  to  tell  the  expedients  and  the  shifts, 

Which  he  that  fights  a season  so  severe 
Devises,  while  he  guards  his  tender  trust; 

And  oft,  at  last,  in  vain.  The  learn’d  and  wise, 
Sarcastic,  would  exclaim,  and  judge  the  song 
Cold  as  its  theme,  and,  like  its  theme,  the  fruit 
Of  too  much  labour,  worthless  when  produced. 

Who  loves  a garden  loves  a greenhouse  too. 


82 


THE  TASK. 


Unconscious  of  a less  propitious  clime, 

There  blooms  exotic  beauty,  warm  and  snug, 

While  the  winds  whistle,  and  the  snows  descend. 

The  spiry  myrtle,  with  unwithering  leaf, 

Shines  there,  and  flourishes.  The  golden  boast 
Of  Portugal  and  western  India  there, 

The  ruddier  orange  and  the  paler  lime, 

Peep  through  their  polish’d  foliage  at  the  storm, 

And  seem  to  smile  at  what  they  need  not  fear. 

The  amomum  there  with  intermingling  flowers 
And  cherries  hangs  her  twigs.  Geranium  boasts 
Her  crimson  honours  ; and  the  spangled  beau, 
Ficoides,  glitters  bright  the  winter  long. 

All  plants,  of  every  leaf,  that  can  endure 

The  winter’s  frown,  if  screen’d  from  his  shrewd  bite, 

Live  there,  and  prosper.  Those  Ausonia  claims, 

Levantine  regions  these  ; the  Azores  send 

Their  jessamine,  her  jessamine  remote 

Caflraia  : foreigners  from  many  lands, 

They  form  one  social  shade,  as  if  convened 
By  magic  summons  of  the  Orphean  lyre. 

Yet  just  arrangement,  rarely  brought  to  pass 
But  by  a master’s  hand,  disposing  well 
The  gay  diversities  of  leaf  and  flower, 

Must  lend  its  aid  to  illustrate  all  their  charms, 

And  dress  the  regular  yet  various  scene. 

Plant  behind  plant  aspiring,  in  the  van 
The  dwarfish,  in  the  rear  retired,  but  still 
Sublime  above  the  rest,  the  statelier  stand. 

So  once  were  ranged  the  sons  of  ancient  Rome, 

A noble  show ! while  Roscius  trod  the  stage ; 

And  so,  while  Garrick,  as  renown’d  as  he, 

The  sons  of  Albion ; fearing  each  to  lose 
Some  note  of  Nature’s  music  from  his  lips, 


THE  GARDEN*. 


83 


And  covetous  of  Shakspeare’s  beauty,  seen 
In  every  flash  of  his  far-beaming  eye. 

Nor  taste  alone  and  well-contrived  display 
Suffice  to  give  the  marshall’ d ranks  the  grace 
Of  their  complete  effect.  Much  yet  remains 
Unsung,  and  many  cares  are  yet  behind, 

And  more  laborious ; cares  on  which  depends 
Their  vigour,  injured  soon,  not  soon  restored. 
The  soil  must  be  renew’d,  which,  often  wash’d, 
Loses  its  treasure  of  salubrious  salts, 

And  disappoints  the  roots ; the  slender  roots 
Close  interwoven  where  they  meet  the  vase 
Must  smooth  be  shorn  away ; the  sapless  branch 
Must  fly  before  the  knife ; the  wither’d  leaf 
Must  be  detach’d,  and,  where  it  strews  the  floor, 
Swept  with  a woman’s  neatness,  breeding  else 
Contagion,  and  disseminating  death. 

Discharge  but  these  kind  offices,  (and  who 
Would  spare,  that  loves  them,  offices  like  these?) 
Well  they  reward  the  toil.  The  sight  is  pleased, 
The  scent  regaled ; each  odoriferous  leaf, 

Each  opening  blossom,  freely  breathes  abroad 
Its  gratitude,  and  thanks  him  with  its  sweets. 

So  manifold,  all  pleasing  in  their  kind, 

All  healthful,  are  the  employs  of  rural  life, 
Reiterated  as  the  wheel  of  time 
Runs  round ; still  ending,  and  beginning  still. 
Nor  are  these  all.  To  deck  the  shapely  knoll, 
That,  softly  swell’d  and  gaily  dress’d,  appears 
A flowery  island,  from  the  dark  green  lawn 
Emerging,  must  be  deem’d  a labour  due 
To  no  mean  hand,  and  asks  the  touch  of  taste. 
Here,  also,  grateful  mixture  of  well-match’d 
And  sorted  hues  (each  giving  each  relief, 


84 


THE  TASK. 


And  by  contrasted  beauty  shining  more) 

Is  needful.  Strength  may  wield  the  ponderous  spade, 
May  turn  the  clod,  and  wheel  the  compost  home ; 

But  elegance,  chief  grace  the  garden  shows., 

And  most  attractive,  is  the  fair  result 
Of  thought,  the  creature  of  a polish’d  mind. 

Without  it,  all  is  Gothic  as  the  scene 

To  which  the  insipid  citizen  resorts 

Near  yonder  heath ; where  Industry  mispent, 

But  proud  of  his  uncouth,  ill-chosen  task, 

Has  made  a heaven  on  earth  ; with  suns  and  moons 
Of  close-ramm’d  stones  has  charged  the  encumber’d  soil, 
And  fairly  laid  the  zodiac  in  the  dust. 

He,  therefore,  who  would  see  his  flowers  disposed 
Sightly  and  in  just  order,  ere  he  gives 
The  beds  the  trusted  treasure  of  their  seeds, 

Forecasts  the  future  whole ; that  when  the  scene 
Shall  break  into  its  preconceived  display, 

Each  for  itself,  and  all  as  with  one  voice 
Conspiring,  may  attest  his  bright  design. 

Nor  even  then,  dismissing  as  perform’d 
His  pleasant  work,  may  he  suppose  it  done. 

Few  self-supported  flowers  endure  the  wind 
Uninjured,  but  expect  the  upholding  aid 
Of  the  smooth-shaven  prop,  and,  neatly  tied, 

Are  wedded  thus,  like  beauty  to  old  age, 

For  interest  sake,  the  living  to  the  dead. 

Some  clothe  the  soil  that  feeds  them,  far  diffused 
And  lowly  creeping,  modest,  and  yet  fair, 

Like  virtue,  thriving  most  where  little  seen : 

Some,  more  aspiring,  catch  the  neighbour  shrub 
With  clasping  tendrils,  and  invest  his  branch, 

Else  unadorn’d,  with  many  a gay  festoon 
And  fragrant  chaplet,  recompensing  well 


i • 

I *• 


"Few  self-supported,  flowers  endure  the  wind 
Uninjured,  but  expect  the  upholding  aid" 


w 


m 


\[  '4" 


THE  GARDEN. 


85 


The  strength  they  borrow  with  the  grace  they  lend. 

All  hate  the  rank  society  of  weeds, 

Noisome,  and  ever  greedy  to  exhaust 
The  impoverish’d  earth ; an  overbearing  race, 

That,  like  the  multitude  made  faction-mad, 

Disturb  good  order,  and  degrade  true  worth. 

O blest  seclusion  from  a jarring  world, 

Which  he,  thus  occupied,  enjoys  ! Retreat 
Cannot,  indeed,  to  guilty  man  restore 
Lost  innocence,  or  cancel  follies  past ; 

But  it  has  peace,  and  much  secures  the  mind 
From  all  assaults  of  evil;  proving  still 
A faithful  barrier,  not  o’erleap’d  with  ease 
By  vicious  Custom,  raging  uncontroll’d 
Abroad,  and  desolating  public  life. 

When  fierce  Temptation,  seconded  within 
By  traitor  Appetite,  and  arm’d  with  darts 
Temper’d  in  hell,  invades  the  throbbing  breast, 

To  combat  may  be  glorious,  and  success 
Perhaps  may  crown  us ; but  to  fly  is  safe. 

Had  I the  choice  of  sublunary  good, 

What  could  I wish,  that  I possess  not  here? 

Health,  leisure,  means  .to  improve  it,  friendship,  peace, 
No  loose  or  wanton,  though  a wandering,  Muse, 

And  constant  occupation  without  care. 

Thus  blest,  I draw  a picture  of  that  bliss ; 

Hopeless,  indeed,  that  dissipated  minds, 

And  profligate  abusers  of  a world 
Created  fair  so  much  in  vain  for  them, 

Should  seek  the  guiltless  joys  that  I describe, 

Allured  by  my  report : but  sure  no  less, 

That  self-condemn’d  they  must  neglect  the  prize, 

And,  what  they  will  not  taste,  must  yet  approve. 

What  we  admire  we  praise ; and,  when  we  praise, 

8 


86 


THE  TASK. 


Advance  it  into  notice,  that,  its  worth 
Acknowledged,  others  may  admire  it  too. 

I,  therefore,  recommend,  though  at  the  risk 
Of  popular  disgust,  yet  boldly  still, 

The  cause  of  piety,  and  sacred  truth, 

And  virtue,  and  those  scenes  which  God  ordain’d 
Should  best  secure  them,  and  promote  them  most 
Scenes  that  I love,  and  with  regret  perceive 
Forsaken,  or  through  folly  not  enjoy’d. 

Pure  is  the  nymph,  though  liberal  of  her  smiles, 
And  chaste,  though  unconfin’d,  whom  I extol. 

Not  as  the  prince  in  Shushan,  when  he  call’d, 
Vain-glorious  of  her  charms,  his  Vashti  forth, 

To  grace  the  full  pavilion.  His  design 
Was  but  to  boast  his  own  peculiar  good, 

Which  all  might  view  with  envy,  none  partake. 
My  charmer  is  not  mine  alone ; my  sweets, 

And  she  that  sweetens  all  my  bitters  too, 

Nature,  enchanting  Nature,  in  whose  form 
And  lineaments  divine  I trace  a hand 
That  errs  not,  and  find  raptures  still  renew’d, 

Is  free  to  all  men — universal  prize. 

Strange  that  so  fair  a creature  -should  yet  want 
Admirers,  and  be  destined  to  divide 
With  meaner  objects  e’en  the  few  she  finds  ! 
Stripp’d  of  her  ornaments,  her  leaves  and  flowers, 
* She  loses  all  her  influence.  Cities,  then, 

Attract  us,  and  neglected  Nature  pines 
Abandon’d,  as  unworthy  of  our  love. 

But  are  not  wholesome  airs,  though  unperfumed 
By  roses;  and  clear  suns,  though  scarcely  felt; 
And  groves,  if  unharmonious,  yet  secure 
From  clamour,  and  whose  very  silence  charms ; 
To  be  preferr’d  to  smoke,  to  the  eclipse, 


THE  GARDEN. 


87 


That  metropolitan  volcanoes  make, 

Whose  Stygian  throats  breathe  darkness  all  day  long; 
And  to  the  stir  of  Commerce,  driving  slow, 

And  thundering  loud,  with  his  ten  thousand  wheels  ? 
They  would  be,  were  not  madness  in  the  head, 

And  folly  in  the  heart ; were  England  now, 

What  England  was,  plain,  hospitable,  kind, 

And  undebauch’d.  But  we  have  bid  farewell 
To  all  the  virtues  of  those  better  days, 

And  all  their  honest  pleasures.  Mansions  once 
Know  their  own  masters ; and  laborious  hinds, 

Who  had  survived  the  father,  served  the  son. 

Now  the  legitimate  and  rightful  lord 
Is  but  a transient  guest,  newly  arrived, 

And  soon  to  be  supplanted.  He  that  saw 
His  patrimonial  timber  cast  its  leaf, 

Sells  the  last  scantling,  and  transfers  the  price 
To  some  shrewd  sharper,  ere  it  buds  again. 

Estates  are  landscapes,  gazed  upon  awhile, 

Then  advertised,  and  auctioneer’d  away. 

The  country  starves,  and  they  that  feed  the  o’ercharged 
And  surfeited  lewd  town  with  her  fair  dues, 

By  a just  judgment  strip  and  starve  themselves. 

The  wings  that  waft  our  riches  out  of  sight, 

Grow  on  the  gamester’s  elbows,  and  the  alert 
And  nimble  motion  of  those  restless  joints, 

That  never  tire,  soon  fans  them  all  away. 

Improvement  too,  the  idol  of  the  age, 

Is  fed  with  many  a victim.  Lo,  he  comes ! 

The  omnipotent  magician,  Brown,  appears ! 

Down  falls  the  venerable  pile,  the  abode 
Of  our  forefathers — a grave,  whisker’ d race, 

But  tasteless.  Springs  a palace  in  its  stead, 

But  in  a distant  spot;  where,  more  exposed, 


88 


THE  TASK. 


It  may  enjoy  the  advantage  of  the  north, 

And  aguish  east,  till  time  shall  have  transform’d 
Those  naked  acres  to  a sheltering  grove. 

He  speaks ; — -the  lake  in  front  becomes  a lawn ; 
Woods  vanish,  hills  subside,  and  valleys  rise; 

And  streams,  as  if  created  for  his  use, 

Pursue  the  track  of  his  directing  wand, 

Sinuous  or  straight,  now  rapid  and  now  slow, 

Now  murmuring  soft,  now  roaring  in  cascades— 
E’en  as  he  bids ! The  enraptured  owner  smiles. 

’Tis  finish’d;  and  yet,  finish’d  as  it  seems, 

Still  wants  a grace,  the  loveliest  it  could  show, 

A mine  to  satisfy  the  enormous  cost. 

Drain’d  to  the  last  poor  item  of  his  wealth, 

He  sighs,  departs,  and  leaves  the  accomplish’d  plan, 
That  he  has  touch’d,  retouch’d,  many  a long  day 
Labour’d,  and  many  a night  pursued  in  dreams, 

Just  when  it  meets  his  hopes,  and  proves  the  Heaven 
He  wanted,  for  a wealthier  to  enjoy! 

And  now,  perhaps,  the  glorious  hour  is  come, 

When,  having  no  stake  left,  no  pledge  to  endear 
Her  interests,  or  that  gives  her  sacred  cause 
A moment’s  operation  on  his  love, 

He  burns  with  most  intense  and  flagrant  zeal 
To  serve  his  country.  Ministerial  grace 
Deals  him  out  money  from  the  public  chest; 

Or,  if  that  mine  be  shut,  some  private  purse 
Supplies  his  need  with  a usurious  loan, 

To  be  refunded  duly  when  his  vote, 

Well-managed,  shall  have  earn’d  its  worthy  price. 

O innocent,  compared  with  arts  like  these, 

Crape,  and  cock’d  pistol,  and  the  whistling  ball 
Sent  through  the  traveller’s  temples ! He  that  finds 
One  drop  of  Heaven’s  sweet  mercy  in  his  cup, 


THE  GARDEN. 


89 


Can  dig,  beg,  rot,  and  perish,  well  content, 

So  he  may  wrap  himself  in  honest  rags 
At  his  last  gasp ; but  could  not  for  a world 
Fish  up  his  dirty  and  dependant  bread 
From  pools  and  ditches  of  the  commonwealth, 

Sordid  and  sickening  at  his  own  success. 

Ambition,  avarice,  penury  incurr’d 
By  endless  riot,  vanity,  the  lust 
Of  pleasure  and  variety,  dispatch, 

As  duly  as  the  swallows  disappear, 

The  world  of  wandering  Knights  and  Squires  to  town, 
London  ingulfs  them  all ! The  shark  is  there, 

And  the  shark’s  prey:  the  spendthrift,  and  the  leech 
That  sucks  him : there  the  sycophant,  and  he 
Who,  with  bareheaded  and  obsequious  bows, 

Begs  a warm  office,  doom’d  to  a cold  jail 
And  groat  per  diem  if  his  patron  frown. 

The  levee  swarms,  as  if  in  golden  pomp 
Were  character’d  on  every  statesman’s  door, 

“ Batter'd  and  bankrupt  fortunes  mended  here." 
These  are  the  charms  that  sully  and  eclipse 
The  charms  of  Nature.  ’Tis  the  cruel  gripe 
That  lean,  hard-handed  Poverty  inflicts, 

The  hope  of  better  things,  the  chance  to  win, 

The  wish  to  shine,  the  thirst  to  be  amused. 

That  at  the  sound  of  Winter’s  hoary  wing 
Unpeople  all  our  counties  of  such  herds 
Of  fluttering,  loitering,  cringing,  begging,  loose, 

And  wanton  vagrants,  as  make  London,  vast 
And  boundless  as  it  is,  a crowded  coop. 

O thou  resort  and  mart  of  all  the  earth, 

Checker’d  with  all  complexions  of  mankind, 

And  spotted  with  all  crimes ; in  whom  I see 
Much  that  I love,  and  more  that  I admire, 

8* 


90 


THE  TASK. 


And  all  that  I abhor ; thou  freckled  fair, 

That  pleasest  and  yet  shock’st  me,  I can  laugh, 
And  I can  weep,  can  hope,  and  can  despond, 

Feel  wrath  and  pity,  when  I think  on  thee ! 

Ten  righteous  would  have  saved  a city  once, 

And  thou  hast  many  righteous. — Well  for  thee — 
That  salt  preserves  thee ; more  corrupted  else, 
And  therefore,  more  obnoxious  at  this  hour, 

Than  Sodom  in  her  day  had  power  to  be, 

For  whom  God  heard  His  Abraham  plead  in  vain. 


THE  TASK. 

BOOK  IV THE  WINTER  EVENING, 


ARGUMENT. 


The  post  comes  in.  The  newspaper  is  read.  The  world  contem- 
plated at  a distance.  Address  to  Winter.  The  rural  amusements 
of  a winter  evening  compared  with  the  fashionable  ones.  Address 
to  Evening.  A brown  study.  Fall  of  snow  in  the  evening.  The 
wagoner.  A poor  family  piece.  The  rural  thief.  Public-houses. 
The  multitude  of  them  censured.  The  farmer’s  daughter : what  she 
was,  what  she  is.  The  simplicity  of  country  manners  almost  lost. 
Causes  of  the  change.  Desertion  of  the  country  by  the  rich.  Neg- 
lect of  magistrates.  The  militia  principally  in  fault.  The  new 
recruit  and  his  transformation.  Reflection  on  bodies  corporate. 
The  love  of  rural  objects  natural  to  all,  and  never  to  be  totally 
extinguished. 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UHiVEOT  ILUHOIS 


"He  eom.es,  the  herald  of  a noisy  world, 

"With  spatter'd  boots,  strapp'd  waist,  and  frozen  locks  ; " 


THE  TASK. 


BOOK  IV. THE  WINTER  EVENING. 

Hark  ! ’tis  the  twanging  horn  o’er  yonder  bridge, 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 
Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,  in  which  the  moon 
Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected  bright ; — 

He  comes,  the  herald  of  a noisy  world, 

With  spatter’d  boots,  strapp’d  waist,  and  frozen  locks; 
News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at  his  back. 

True  to  his  charge,  the  close-pack’d  load  behind, 

Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn ; 

And,  having  dropped  th’  expected  bag,  pass  on. 

He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch, 

Gold  and  yet  cheerful:  messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some; 

To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy. 

Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks, 

Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 
With  tears,  that  trickled  down  the  writer’s  cheeks 
Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill, 

Or  charged  with  amorous  sighs  of  absent  swains, 

Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  affect 
His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 

But  O th’  important  budget!  usher’d  in 


93 


94 


THE  TASK. 


With  such  heart-shaking  music,  who  can  say 
What  are  its  tidings?  have  our  troops  awaked ? 

Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugg’d, 

Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  the  Atlantic  wave  ? 

Is  India  free?  and  does  she  wear  her  plumed 
And  je well’d  turban  with  a smile  of  peace, 

Or  do  we  grind  her  still?  The  grand  debate, 

The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply, 

The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit, 

And  the  loud  laugh — I long  to  know  them  all ; 

I burn  to  set  th’  imprisoned  wranglers  free, 

And  give  them  voice  and  utterance  once  again. 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 

Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 

And,  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a steamy  column,  and  the  cups, 

That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 

So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 

Not  such  his  evening  who,  with  shining  face, 

Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  and,  squeezed 
And  bored  with  elbow-points  through  both  his  sides, 
Outscolds  the  ranting  actor  on  the  stage : 

Nor  his,  who  patient  stands  till  his  feet  throb, 

And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 
Of  patriots,  bursting  with  heroic  rage, 

Or  placemen,  all  tranquillity  and  smiles. 

This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work ! 

Which  not  e’en  critics  criticise ; that  holds 
Inquisitive  Attention,  while  I read, 

Fast  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which  the  Fair, 
Though  eloquent  themselves,  yet  fear  to  break ; 
What  is  it,  but  a map  of  busy  life, 

Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns  ? 

Here  runs  the  mountainous  and  craggy  ridge, 


THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


95 


That  tempts  Ambition.  On  the  summit  see 
The  seals  of  office  glitter  in  his  eyes ; 

He  climbs,  he  pants,  he  grasps  them ! At  his  heels, 
Close  at  his  heels,  a demagogue  ascends, 

And  with  a dexterous  jerk  soon  twists  him  down, 
And  wins  them,  but  to  lose  them  in  his  turn. 

Here  rills  of  oily  eloquence,  in  soft 
Meanders  lubricate  the  course  they  take ; 

The  modest  speaker  is  ashamed  and  grieved 
To  engross  a moment’s  notice ; and  yet  begs, 

Begs  a propitious  ear  for  his  poor  thoughts, 
However  trivial  all  that  he  conceives. 

Sweet  bashfulness ! it  claims  at  least  this  praise  ; 
The  dearth  of  information  and  good  sense, 

That  it  foretells  us,  always  comes  to  pass. 

Cataracts  of  declamation  thunder  here ; 

There  forests  of  no  meaning  spread  the  page, 

In  which  all  comprehension  wanders  lost; 

While  fields  of  pleasantry  amuse  us  there 
With  merry  descants  on  a nation’s  woes. 

The  rest  appears  a wilderness  of  strange 
But  gay  confusion;  roses  for  the  cheeks, 

And  lilies  for  the  brows  of  faded  age, 

Teeth  for  the  toothless,  ringlets  for  the  bald, 

Heaven,  earth,  and  ocean,  plunder’d  of  their  sweets, 
Nectareous  essences,  Olympian  dews, 

Sermons,  and  city  feasts,  and  favourite  airs, 

Ethereal  journeys,  submarine  exploits, 

And  Katterfelto,  with  his  hair  on  end 

At  his  own  wonders,  wondering  for  his  bread. 

’Tis  pleasant,  through  the  loop-holes  of  retreat, 

To  peep  at  such  a world ; to  see  the  stir 
Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd ; 

To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through  all  her  gates 


96 


THE  TASK. 


At  a safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Falls  a soft  murmur  on  the  uninjured  ear. 

Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus  at  ease 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I seem  advanced 
To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height, 

That  liberates  and  exempts  me  from  them  all. 

It  turns  submitted  to  my  view,  turns  round 
With  all  its  generations;  I behold 
The  tumult,  and  am  still.  The  sound  of  war 
Has  lost  its  terrors  ere  it  reaches  me ; 

Grieves,  but  alarms  me  not.  I mourn  the  pride 
And  avarice  that  make  man  a wolf  to  man ; 

Hear  the  faint  echo  of  those  brazen  throats, 

By  which  he  speaks  the  language  of  his  heart, 

And  sigh,  but  never  tremble  at  the  sound. 

He  travels  and  expatiates,  as  the  Bee 
From  flower  to  flower,  so  he  from  land  to  land ; 
The  manners,  customs,  policy,  of  all 
Pay  contribution  to  the  store  he  gleans ; 

He  sucks  intelligence  in  every  clime, 

And  spreads  the  honey  of  his  deep  research 
At  his  return — a rich  repast  for  me. 

He  travels,  and  I too.  I tread  his  deck, 

Ascend  his  topmast,  through  his  peering  eyes 
Discover  countries,  with  a kindred  heart 
Suffer  his  woes,  and  share  in  his  escapes; 

While  fancy,  like  the  finger  of  a clock, 

Buns  the  great  circuit,  and  is  still  at  home. 

O Winter,  ruler  of  the  inverted  year, 

Thy  scatter’d  hair  with  sleet-like  ashes  fill’d, 

Thy  breath  congeal’d  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 
Fringed  with  a beard  made  white  with  other  snows 
Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapp’d  in  clouds, 
A leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne 


THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


97 


A sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels, 

But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way ; 

I love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem’st, 

And  dreaded  as  thou  art!  Thou  hold’st  the  sun 
A prisoner  in  the  yet  undawning  East, 

Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon, 

And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 

Down  to  the  rosy  West ; but  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease, 

And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought, 

Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 

I crown  thee  King  of  intimate  delights, 

Fireside  enjoyments,  home-born  happiness, 

And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturb’d  retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  evening  know. 

No  rattling  wheels  stop  short  before  these  gates  ; 

No  powder’d  pert  proficient  in  the  art 
Of  sounding  an  alarm  assaults  these  doors 
Till  the  street  rings ; no  stationary  steeds 
Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heedless  of  the  sound, 
The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and  quake: 

But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task, 

The  pattern  grows,  the  well-depicted  flower, 
Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn, 

Unfolds  its  bosom  ; buds,  and  leaves,  and  sprigs, 

And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  disposed, 

Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair ; 

A wreath,  that  cannot  fade,  or  flowers,  that  blow 
With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 

The  Poet’s  or  Historian’s  page,  by  one 
Made  vocal  for  the  amusement  of  the  rest ; 

9 


98 


THE  TASK. 


The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet  sounds 
The  touch  from  many  a trembling  chord  shakes  out 
And  the  clear  voice,  symphonious,  yet  distinct, 

And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still, 

Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a keener  edge 
On  female  industry:  the  threaded  steel 
Flies  swiftly,  and  unfelt  the  task  proceeds. 

The  volume  closed,  the  customary  rites 
Of  the  last  meal  commence.  A Roman  meal ; 

Such  as  the  mistress  of  the  world  once  found 
Delicious,  when  her  patriots  of  high  note, 

Perhaps  by  moonlight,  at  their  humble  doors, 

And  under  an  old  oak’s  domestic  shade, 

Enjoy’d,  spare  feast!  a radish  and  an  egg. 
Discourse  ensues,  not  trivial,  yet  not  dull, 

Nor  such  as  with  a frown  forbids  the  play 
Of  fancy,  or  proscribes  the  sound  of  mirth: 

Nor  do  we  madly,  like  an  impious  world, 

Who  deem  religion  frenzy,  and  the  God 
That  made  them  an  intruder  on  their  joys, 

Start  at  His  awful  name,  or  deem  His  praise 
A jarring  note.  Themes  of  a graver  tone, 

Exciting  oft  our  gratitude  and  love, 

While  we  retrace  with  Memory’s  pointing  wand, 
That  calls  the  past  to  our  exact  review, 

The  dangers  we  have  ’scaped,  the  broken  snare, 
The  disappointed  foe,  deliverance  found 
Unlook’d  for,  life  preserved,  and  peace  restored, 
Fruits  of  omnipotent  eternal  love. 

O evenings  worthy  of  the  gods ! exclaim’d 
The  Sabine  Bard.  O evenings,  I reply, 

More  to  be  prized  and  coveted  than  yours, 

As  more  illumined,  and  with  nobler  truths. 

That  I,  and  mine,  and  those  we  love,  enjoy. 


THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


99 


Is  Winter  hideous  in  a garb  like  this  ? 

Needs  he  the  tragic  fur,  the  smoke  of  lamps, 

The  pent-up  breath  of  an  unsavoury  throng, 

To  thaw  him  into  feeling;  or  the  smart 
And  snappish  dialogue,  that  flippant  wits 
Call  comedy,  to  prompt  him  with  a smile  ? 

The  self-complacent  actor,  when  he  views 
(Stealing  a side-long  glance  at  a full  house) 

The  slope  of  faces,  from  the  floor  to  the  roof, 

(As  if  one  master-spring  controll’d  them  all,) 

Relax’d  into  a universal  grin, 

Sees  not  a countenance  there,  that  speaks  a joy 
Half  so  refined  or  so  sincere  as  ours. 

Cards  were  superfluous  here,  with  all  the  tricks 
That  idleness  has  ever  yet  contrived 
To  fill  the  void  of  an  unfurnish’d  brain, 

To  palliate  dulness,  and  give  time  a shove. 

Time,  as  he  passes  us,  has  a Dove’s  wing, 

Unsoil’d,  and  swift,  and  of  a silken  sound; 

But  the  world’s  Time  is  Time  in  masquerade ! 

Theirs,  should  I paint  him,  has  his  pinions  fledged 
With  motley  plumes;  and,  where  the  Peacock  shows 
His  azure  eyes,  is  tinctured  black  and  red 
With  spots  quadrangular  of  diamond  form, 
Ensanguined  hearts,  clubs  typical  of  strife, 

And  spades,  the  emblem  of  untimely  graves. 

What  should  be,  and  what  was  an  hour-glass  once, 
Becomes  a dice-box,  and  a billiard  mast 
Well  does  the  work  of  his  destructive  scythe. 

Thus  deck’d,  he  charms  a world  whom  fashion  blinds 
To  his  true  worth,  most  pleased  when  idle  most ; 
Whose  only  happy  are  their  wasted  hours. 

E’en  misses,  at  whose  age  their  mothers  wore 
The  backstring  and  the  bib,  assume  the  dress 


100 


THE  TASK. 


Of  womanhood,  sit  pupils  in  the  school 
Of  card-devoted  time,  and  night  by  night, 

Placed  at  some  vacant  corner  of  the  board, 

Learn  every  trick,  and  soon  play  all  the  game. 

But  truce  with  censure.  Roving  as  I rove, 

Where  shall  I find  an  end,  or  how  proceed? 

As  he  that  travels  far,  oft  turns  aside 
To  view  some  rugged  rock  or  mouldering  tower, 
Which  seen  delights  him  not;  then,  coming  home, 
Describes  and  prints  it,  that  the  world  may  know 
How  far  he  went  for  what  was  nothing  worth ; 

So  I,  with  brush  in  hand,  and  pallet  spread, 

With  colours  mixed  for  a far  different  use, 

Paint  cards,  and  dolls,  and  every  idle  thing 
That  Fancy  finds  in  her  excursive  flights. 

Come,  Evening,  once  again,  season  of  peace ; 
Return,  sweet  Evening,  and  continue  long! 
Methinks  I see  thee  in  the  streaky  west, 

With  matron  step  slow  moving,  while  the  Night 
Treads  on  thy  sweeping  train;  one  hand  employ’d 
In  letting  fall  the  curtain  of  repose 
On  bird  and  beast,  the  other  charged  for  man 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day : 

Not  sumptuously  adorn’d,  nor  needing  aid, 

Like  homely-featured  Night,  of  clustering  gems  ; 

A star  or  two,  just  twinkling  on  thy  brow, 

Suffices  thee ; save  that  the  Moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  hers,  not  worn,  indeed,  on  high 
With  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 
With  modest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone, 
Resplendent  less,  but  of  an  ampler  round. 

Come  then,  and  thou  shalt  find  thy  votary  calm, 

Or  make  me  so.  Composure  is  thy  gift : 

And,  whether  I devote  thy  gentle  hours 


THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


101 


To  books,  to  music,  or  the  poet’s  toil ; 

To  weaving  nets  for  bird-alluring  fruit ; 

Or  twining  silken  threads  round  ivory  reels, 

When  they  command,  whom  man  was  born  to  please, 
I slight  thee  not,  but  make  thee  welcome  still. 

Just  when  our  drawing-rooms  begin  to  blaze 
With  lights,  by  clear  reflection  multiplied 
From  many  a mirror,  in  which  he  of  Gath, 

Goliath,  might  have  seen  his  giant  bulk 
Whole  without  stooping,  towering  crest  and  all, 

My  pleasures,  too,  begin.  But  me,  perhaps, 

The  glowing  hearth  may  satisfy  awhile 
With  faint  illumination,  that  uplifts 
The  shadows  to  the  ceiling,  there  by  fits 
Dancing  uncouthly  to  the  quivering  flame. 

Not  undelightful  is  an  hour  to  me 
So  spent  in  parlour  twilight : such  a gloom 
Suits  well  the  thoughtful  or  unthinking  mind, 

The  mind  contemplative,  with  some  new  theme 
Pregnant,  or  indisposed  alike  to  all. 

Laugh  ye,  who  boast  your  more  mercurial  powers ; 
That  never  feel  a stupor,  know  no  pause, 

Nor  need  one  ; I am  conscious,  and  confess 
Fearless,  a soul  that  does  not  always  think. 

Me  oft  has  Fancy  ludicrous  and  wild 
Soothed  with  a waking  dream  of  houses,  towers, 
Trees,  churches,  and  strange  visages,  express’d 
In  the  red  cinders,  while  with  poring  eye 
I gazed,  myself  creating  what  I saw. 

Nor  less  amused  have  I quiescent  watch’d 
The  sooty  films  that  play  upon  the  bars 
Pendulous,  and  foreboding  in  the  view 
Of  superstition,  prophesying  still, 

Though  still  deceived,  some  stranger’s  near  approach, 
9* 


102 


THE  TASK. 


’Tis  thus  the  understanding  takes  repose 
In  indolent  vacuity  of  thought, 

And  sleeps  and  is  refresh’d.  Meanwhile  the  face 

Conceals  the  mood  lethargic  with  a mask 

Of  deep  deliberation,  as  the  man 

Were  task’d  to  his  full  strength,  absorb’d  and  lost. 

Thus  oft,  reclined  at  ease,  I lose  an  hour 

At  evening,  till  at  length  the  freezing  blast, 

That  sweeps  the  bolted  shutter,  summons  home 
The  recollected  powers  ; and  snapping  short 
The  glassy  threads  with  which  the  fancy  weaves 
Her  brittle  toils,  restores  me  to  myself. 

How  calm  is  my  recess ; and  how  the  frost, 
Raging  abroad,  and  the  rough  wind  endear 
The  silence  and  the  warmth  enjoy’d  within! 

I saw  the  woods  and  fields  at  close  of  day 
A variegated  show ; the  meadows  green, 

Though  faded  ; and  the  lands,  where  lately  waved 
The  golden  harvest,  of  a mellow  brown, 

Upturn’d  so  lately  by  the  forceful  share. 

I saw  far  off  the  weedy  fallows  smile 
With  verdure  not  unprofitable,  grazed 
By  flocks,  fast  feeding,  and  selecting  each 
His  favourite  herb  ; while  all  the  leafless  groves 
That  skirt  the  horizon,  wore  a sable  hue, 

Scarce  noticed  in  the  kindred  dusk  of  eve. 
To-morrow  brings  a change,  a total  change ! 
Which  even  now,  though  silently  perform’d, 

And  slowly,  and  by  most  unfelt,  the  face 
Of  universal  nature  undergoes. 

Fast  falls  a fleecy  shower : the  downy  flakes 
Descending,  and,  with  never-ceasing  lapse, 

Softly  alighting  upon  all  below, 

Assimilate  all  objects.  Earth  receives 


THE  WINTER  EVENING-. 


103 


Gladly  the  thickening  mantle  ; and  the  green 
And  tender  blade,  that  fear’d  the  chilling  blast, 
Escapes  unhurt  beneath  so  warm  a veil. 

In  such  a world,  so  thorny,  and  where  none 
Finds  happiness  unblighted,  or,  if  found, 

Without  some  thistly  sorrow  at  its  side; 

It  seems  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  no  sin 
Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distinguish’d  than  ourselves  ; that  thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  moderate  ills, 

And  sympathize  with  others  suffering  more. 

Ill  fares  the  traveller  now,  and  he  that  stalks 
In  ponderous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team. 

The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 
By  congregated  loads  adhering  close 
To  the  clogg’d  wheels;  and,  in  its  sluggish  pace, 
Noiseless  appears  a moving  hill  of  snow, 

The  toiling  steeds  expand  the  nostril  wide, 

While  every  breath,  by  respiration  strong 
Forced  downward,  is  consolidated  soon 
Upon  their  jutting  chests.  He,  form’d  to  bear 
The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempestuous  night, 

With  half-shut  eyes,  and  pucker’d  cheeks,  and  teeth 
Presented  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on. 

One  hand  secures  his  hat,  save  when  with  both 
He  brandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip, 

Resounding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain. 

O happy ! and  in  my  account  denied 
That  sensibility  of  pain  with  which 
Refinement  is  endued,  thrice  happy  thou  ! 

Thy  frame,  robust  and  hardy,  feels,  indeed, 

The  piercing  cold,  but  feels  it  unimpair’d. 

The  learned  finger  never  need  explore 
Thy  vigorous  pulse ; and  the  unhealthful  east, 


104 


THE  TASK. 


That  breathes  the  spleen,  and  searches  every  bone 
Of  the  infirm,  is  wholesome  air  to  thee. 

Thy  days  roll  on  exempt  from  household  care ; 
Thy  wagon  is  thy  wife ; and  the  poor  beasts, 

That  drag  the  dull  companion  to  and  fro, 

Thine  helpless  charge,  dependent  on  thy  care. 

Ah,  treat  them  kindly  ! rude  as  thou  appear’ st, 
Yet  shew  that  thou  hast  mercy!  which  the  great, 
With  needless  hurry  whirl’d  from  place  to  place, 
Humane  as  they  would  seem,  not  always  show. 

Poor,  yet  industrious,  modest,  quiet,  neat, 

Such  claim  compassion  in  a night  like  this, 

And  have  a friend  in  every  feeling  heart. 

Warm’d,  while  it  lasts,  by  labour,  all  day  long 
They  brave  the  season,  and  yet  find  at  eve, 

111  clad,  and  fed  but  sparely,  time  to  cool. 

The  frugal  housewife  trembles  when  she  lights 
Her  scanty  stock  of  brushwood,  blazing  clear, 

But  dying  soon,  like  all  terrestrial  joys. 

The  few  small  embers  left  she  nurses  well ; 

And,  while  her  infant  race,  with  outspread  hands, 
And  crowded  knees,  sit  cowering  o’er  the  sparks, 
Retires,  content  to  quake  so  they  he  warm’d. 

The  man  feels  least,  as  more  inured  than  she 
To  winter,  and  the  current  in  his  veins 
More  briskly  moved  by  his  severer  toil ; 

Yet  he  too  finds  his  own  distress  in  theirs. 

The  taper  soon  extinguish’d,  which  I saw 
Dangled  along,  at  the  cold  finger’s  end, 

Just  when  the  day  declined ; and  the  brown  loaf 
Lodged  on  the  shelf,  half  eaten  without  sauce 
Of  savory  cheese,  or  butter  costlier  still ; 

Sleep  seems  their  only  refuge ; for  alas, 

Where  penury  is  felt,  the  thought  is  chain’d, 


THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


105 


And  sweet  colloquial  pleasures  are  but  few ! 

With  all  this  thrift  they  thrive  not.  All  the  care 
Ingenious  Parsimony  takes,  but  just 
Saves  the  small  inventory,  bed,  and  stool, 

Skillet,  and  old  carved  chest,  from  public  sale. 

They  live,  and  live  without  extorted  alms 
From  grudging  hands ; but  other  boast  have  none 
To  soothe  their  honest  pride,  that  scorns  to  beg, 

Nor  comfort  else,  but  in  their  mutual  love. 

I praise  you  much,  ye  meek  and  patient  pair, 

For  ye  are  worthy ; choosing  rather  far 
A dry  but  independent  crust,  hard  earn’d, 

And  eaten  with  a sigh,  than  to  endure 
The  rugged  frowns  and  insolent  rebuffs 
Of  knaves  in  office,  partial  in  the  work 
Of  distribution  ; liberal  of  their  aid 
To  clamorous  Importunity  in  rags, 

But  oft-times  deaf  to  suppliants  who  would  blush 
To  wear  a tatter’d  garb,  however  coarse, 

Whom  famine  cannot  reconcile  to  filth : 

These  ask  with  painful  shyness,  and,  refused 
Because  deserving,  silently  retire  ! 

But  be  ye  of  good  courage ! Time  itself 

Shall  much  befriend  you.  Time  shall  give  increase  ; 

And  all  your  numerous  progeny,  well-train’d 

But  helpless,  in  few  years  shall  find  their  hands 

And  labour  too.  Meanwhile  ye  shall  not  want 

What,  conscious  of  your  virtues,  we  can  spare, 

Nor  what  a wealthier  than  ourselves  may  send. 

I mean  the  man,  who,  when  the  distant  poor 
Need  help,  denies  them  nothing  but  his  name. 

But  poverty  with  most,  who  whimper  forth 
Their  long  complaints,  is  self-inflicted  woe  ; 

The  effect  of  laziness  or  sottish  waste. 


106 


THE  TASK. 


Now  goes  the  nightly  thief  prowling  abroad 
For  plunder ; much  solicitous  how  best 
He  may  compensate  for  a day  of  sloth 
By  works  of  darkness  and  nocturnal  wrong. 

Woe  to  the  gardener’s  pale,  the  farmer’s  hedge, 
Plash’d  neatly,  and  secured  with  driven  stakes 
Deep  in  the  loamy  bank.  Uptorn  by  strength 
Resistless  in  so  bad  a cause,  but  lame 
To  better  deeds,  he  bundles  up  the  spoil, 

An  ass’s  burden,  and,  when  laden  most 
And  heaviest,  light  of  foot  steals  fast  away. 

Nor  does  the  boarded  hovel  better  guard 
The  well-stack’ d pile  of  riven  logs  and  roots 
From  his  pernicious  force.  Nor  will  he  leave 
Unwrench’d  the  door,  however  well  secured, 
Where  Chanticleer  amidst  his  harem  sleeps 
In  unsuspecting  pomp.  Twitch’d  from  the  perch, 
He  gives  the  princely  bird,  with  all  his  wives, 

To  his  voracious  bag,  struggling  in  vain, 

And  loudly  wondering  at  the  sudden  change. 

Nor  this  to  feed  his  own.  ’Twere  some  excuse, 
Did  pity  of  their  sufferings  warp  aside 
His  principle,  and  tempt  him  into  sin 
For  their  support,  so  destitute.  But  they 
Neglected  pine  at  home  ; themselves,  as  more 
Exposed  than  others,  with  less  scruple  made 
His  victims,  robb’d  of  their  defenceless  all. 

Cruel  is  all  he  does.  ’Tis  quenchless  thirst 

Of  ruinous  ebriety,  that  prompts 

His  every  action,  and  imbrutes  the  man. 

O for  a law  to  noose  the  villain’s  neck 
Who  starves  his  own ; who  persecutes  the  blood 
He  gave  them  in  his  children’s  veins,  and  hates 
And  wrongs  the  woman  he  has  sworn  to  love ! 


THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


107 


Pass  where  we  may,  through  city  or  through  town, 
Village,  or  hamlet,  of  this  merry  land, 

Though  lean  and  beggar’d,  every  twentieth  pace 
Conducts  the  unguarded  nose  to  such  a whiff 
Of  stale  debauch,  forth-issuing  from  the  sties 
That  law  has  licensed,  as  makes  Temperance  reel. 
There  sit,  involved  and  lost  in  curling  clouds 
Of  Indian  fume,  and  guzzling  deep,  the  boor, 

The  lackey,  and  the  groom : the  craftsman  there 
Takes  a Lethean  leave  of  all  his  toil ; 

Smith,  cobbler,  joiner,  he  that  plies  the  shears, 

And  he  that  kneads  the  dough ; all  loud  alike, 

All  learned,  and  all  drunk ! The  fiddle  screams 
Plaintive  and  piteous,  as  it  wept  and  wail’d 
Its  wasted  tones  and  harmony  unheard: 

Fierce  the  dispute,  whate’er  the  theme ; while  she, 
Fell  Discord,  arbitress  of  such  debate, 

Perch’d  on  the  sign-post,  holds  with  even  hand 
Her  undecisive  scales.  In  this  she  lays 
A weight  of  ignorance  ; in  that,  of  pride  ; 

And  smiles  delighted  with  the  eternal  poise. 

Dire  is  the  frequent  curse,  and  its  twin  sound, 

The  cheek-distending  oath,  not  to  be  praised 
As  ornamental,  musical,  polite, 

Like  those  which  modern  senators  employ, 

Whose  oath  is  rhetoric,  and  who  swear  for  fame ! 
Behold  the  schools,  in  which  plebeian  minds, 

Once  simple,  are  initiated  in  arts 

Which  some  may  practise  with  politer  grace, 

But  none  with  readier  skill ! — ’tis  here  they  learn 
The  road  that  leads  from  competence  and  peace 
To  indigence  and  rapine  ; till  at  last 
Society,  grown  weary  of  the  load, 

Shakes  her  encumber’d  lap,  and  casts  them  out. 


108 


THE  TASK. 


But  censure  profits  little  : vain  the  attempt 
To  advertise  in  verse  a public  pest, 

That,  like  the  filth  with  which  the  peasant  feeds 
His  hungry  acres,  stinks,  and  is  of  use. 

The  excise  is  fatten’d  with  the  rich  result 
Of  all  this  riot ; and  ten  thousand  casks, 

For  ever  dribbling  out  their  base  contents, 

Touch’d  by  the  Midas  finger  of  the  state, 

Bleed  gold  for  ministers  to  sport  away. 

Drink,  and  be  mad,  then!  ’Tis  your  country  bids. 
Gloriously  drunk,  obey  the  important  call ; 

Her  cause  demands  the  assistance  of  your  throats 
Ye  all  can  swallow,  and  she  asks  no  more. 

Would  I had  fallen  upon  those  happier  days 
That  poets  celebrate ; those  golden  times, 

And  those  Arcadian  scenes,  that  Maro  sings, 

And  Sidney,  warbler  of  poetic  prose. 

Nymphs  were  Dianas  then,  and  swains  had  hearts 
That  felt  their  virtues  : Innocence,  it  seems, 

From  courts  dismiss’d,  found  shelter  in  the  groves  ; 
The  footsteps  of  Simplicity,  impress’d 
Upon  the  yielding  herbage,  (so  they  sing,) 

Then  were  not  all  effaced : then  speech  profane, 
And  manners  profligate,  were  rarely  found, 
Observed  as  prodigies,  and  soon  reclaim’d. 

Vain  wish!  those  days  were  never.  Airy  dreams 
Sat  for  the  picture : and  the  poet’s  hand, 

Imparting  substance  to  an  empty  shade, 

Imposed  a gay  delirium  for  a truth. 

Grant  it : I still  must  envy  them  an  age 
That  favour’d  such  a dream ; in  days  like  these 
Impossible,  when  Virtue  is  so  scarce, 

That  to  suppose  a scene  where  she  presides, 

Is  tramontane,  and  stumbles  all  belief. 


THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


109 


No  : we  are  polish’d  now.  The  rural  lass, 

Whom  once  her  virgin  modesty  and  grace, 

Her  artless  manners,  and  her  neat  attire, 

So  dignified,  that  she  was  hardly  less 
Than  the  fair  shepherdess  of  old  romance, 

Is  seen  no  more.  The  character  is  lost ! 

Her  head,  adorn’d  with  lappets  pinn’d  aloft, 

And  ribands  streaming  gay,  superbly  raised, 

And  magnified  beyond  all  human  size, 

Indebted  to  some  smart  wig-weaver’s  hand 
For  more  than  half  the  tresses  it  sustains ; 

Her  elbows  ruffled,  and  her  tottering  form 

111  propp’d  upon  French  heels  ; she  might  be  deem’d 

(But  that  the  basket  dangling  on  her  arm 

Interprets  her  more  truly)  of  a rank 

Too  proud  for  dairy  work,  or  sale  of  eggs : 

Expect  her  soon  with  footboy  at  her  heels, 

No  longer  blushing  for  her  awkward  load, 

Her  train  and  her  umbrella  all  her  care  ! 

The  town  has  tinged  the  country ; and  the  stain 
Appears  a spot  upon  a vestal’s  robe, 

The  worse  for  what  it  soils.  The  fashion  runs 
Down  into  scenes  still  rural ; but,  alas  ! 

Scenes  rarely  graced  with  rural  manners  now ! 

Time  was  when  in  the  pastoral  retreat 

The  ungarded  door  was  safe  ; men  did  not  watch 

To  invade  another’s  right,  or  guard  their  own. 

Then  sleep  was  undisturb’d  by  fear,  unscared 
By  drunken  howlings  ; and  the  chilling  tale 
Of  midnight  murder  was  a wonder,  heard 
With  doubtful  credit,  told  to  frighten  babes. 

But  farewell  now  to  unsuspicious  nights, 

And  slumbers  unalarm’d!  Now,  ere  you  sleep, 

See  that  your  polish’d  arms  be  primed  with  care, 

10 


110 


THE  TASK. 


And  drop  the  night-bolt: — ruffians  are  abroad; 

And  the  first  larum  of  the  cock’s  shrill  throat 
May  prove  a trumpet,  summoning  your  ear 
To  horrid  sounds  of  hostile  feet  within. 

E’en  daylight  has  its  dangers ; and  the  walk 
Through  pathless  wastes  and  woods,  unconscious  once 
Of  other  tenants  than  melodious  birds, 

Or  harmless  flocks,  is  hazardous  and  bold. 

Lamented  change  ! to  which  full  many  a cause 
Inveterate,  hopeless  of  a cure,  conspires. 

The  course  of  human  things  from  good  to  ill, 

From  ill  to  worse,  is  fatal,  never  fails. 

Increase  of  power  begets  increase  of  wealth ; 

Wealth  luxury,  and  luxury  excess; 

Excess,  the  scrofulous  and  itchy  plague 
That  seizes  first  the  opulent,  descends 
To  the  next  rank  contagious,  and  in  time 
Taints  downward  all  the  graduated  scale 
Of  order,  from  the  chariot  to  the  plough. 

The  rich,  and  they  that  have  an  arm  to  check 
The  licence  of  the  lowest  in  degree, 

Desert  their  office,  and,  themselves  intent 
On  pleasure,  haunt  the  capital,  and  thus 
To  all  the  violence  of  lawless  hands 
Resign  the  scenes  their  presence  might  protect. 
Authority  herself  not  seldom  sleeps, 

Though  resident,  and  witness  of  the  wrong. 

The  plump  convivial  parson  often  bears 
The  magisterial  sword  in  vain,  and  lays 
His  reverence  and  his  worship  both  to  rest 
On  the  same  cushion  of  habitual  sloth. 

Perhaps  timidity  restrains  his  arm ; 

When  he  should  strike  he  trembles  ; and  sets  free, 
Himself  enslaved  by  terror  of  the  band, 


THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


Ill 


The  audacious  convict,  whom  he  dares  not  bind. 
Perhaps,  though  by  profession  ghostly  pure, 

He  too  may  have  his  vice,  and  sometimes  prove 
Less  dainty  than  becomes  his  grave  outside 
In  lucrative  concerns.  Examine  well 
His  milk-white  hand ; the  palm  is  hardly  clean— 
But  here  and  there  an  ugly  smutch  appears. 

Foh ! ’twas  a bribe  that  left  it ! he  has  touch’d 
Corruption.  Whoso  seeks  an  audit  here 
Propitious,  pays  his  tribute,  game  or  fish, 

Wild  fowl  or  venison;  and  his  errand  speeds. 

But  faster  far,  and  more  than  all  the  rest 
A noble  cause,  which  none,  who  bears  a spark 
Of  public  virtue,  ever  wish’d  removed, 

Works  the  deplored  and  mischievous  effect. 

’Tis  universal  soldiership  has  stabb’d 
The  heart  of  merit  in  the  meaner  class. 

Arms,  through  the  vanity  and  brainless  rage 
Of  those  that  bear  them,  in  whatever  cause, 

Seem  most  at  variance  with  all  moral  good, 

And  incompatible  with  serious  thought. 

The  clown,  the  child  of  Nature,  without  guile, 
Blest  with  an  infant’s  ignorance  of  all 
But  his  own  simple  pleasures ; now  and  then 
A wrestling  match,  a foot-race,  or  a fair; 

Is  balloted,  and  trembles  at  the  news : 

Sheepish  he  doffs  his  hat,  and  mumbling  swears 
A bible-oath  to  be  whate’er  they  please, 

To  do  he  knows  not  what.  The  task  perform’d, 
That  instant  he  becomes  the  sergeant’s  care, 

His  pupil,  and  his  torment,  and  his  jest. 

His  awkward  gait,  his  introverted  toes, 

Bent  knees,  round  shoulders,  and  dejected  looks, 
Procure  him  many  a curse.  By  slow  degrees, 


112 


THE  TASK. 


Unapt  to  learn,  and  form’d  of  stubborn  stuff, 

He  yet  by  slow  degrees  puts  off  himself, 

Grows  conscious  of  a change,  and  likes  it  well: 
He  stands  erect ; his  slouch  becomes  a walk ; 
He  steps  right  onward,  martial  in  his  air, 

His  form,  and  movement;  is  as  smart  above 
As  meal  and  larded  locks  can  make  him ; wears 
His  hat,  or  his  plumed  helmet,  with  a grace ; 
And,  his  three  years  of  heroship  expired, 
Returns  indignant  to  the  slighted  plough. 

He  hates  the  field  in  which  no  fife  or  drum 
Attends  him ; drives  his  cattle  to  a march ; 

And  sighs  for  the  smart  comrades  he  has  left. 
’Twere  well  if  his  exterior  change  were  all — 
But,  with  his  clumsy  port,  the  wretch  has  lost 
His  ignorance  and  harmless  manners  too. 

To  swear,  to  game,  to  drink;  to  show  at  home, 
By  lewdness,  idleness,  and  sabbath-breach, 

The  great  proficiency  he  made  abroad ; 

To  astonish  and  to  grieve  his  gazing  friends ; 

To  break  some  maiden’s  and  his  mother’s  heart 
To  be  a pest  where  he  was  useful  once ; 

Are  his  sole  aim,  and  all  his  glory,  now. 

Man  in  society  is  like  a flower 
Blown  in  its  native  bed:  ’ tis  there  alone 
His  faculties,  expanded  in  full  bloom, 

Shine  out;  there  only  reach  their  proper  use. 
But  man,  associated  and  leagued  with  man 
By  regal  warrant,  or  self-join’d  by  bond 
For  interest-sake,  or  swarming  into  clans 
Beneath  one  head  for  purposes  of  war, 

Like  flowers  selected  from  the  rest,  and  bound 
And  bundled  close  to  fill  some  crowded  vase, 
Fades  rapidly,  and,  by  compression  marr’d, 


THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


113 


Contracts  defilement  not  to  be  endured. 

Hence  charter’d  boroughs  are  such  public  plagues; 
And  burghers,  men  immaculate,  perhaps, 

In  all  their  private  functions,  once  combined, 
Become  a loathsome  body,  only  fit 
For  dissolution,  hurtful  to  the  main. 

Hence  merchants,  unimpeachable  of  sin 
Against  the  charities  of  domestic  life, 

Incorporated,  seem  at  once  to  lose 
Their  nature ; and,  disclaiming  all  regard 
For  mercy  and  the  common  rights  of  man, 

Build  factories  with  blood,  conducting  trade 
At  the  sword’s  point,  and  dyeing  the  white  robe 
Of  innocent  commercial  Justice  red. 

Hence,  too,  the  field  of  glory,  as  the  world 
Misdeems  it,  dazzled  by  its  bright  array, 

With  all  its  majesty  of  thundering  pomp, 
Enchanting  music  and  immortal  wreaths, 

Is  but  a school,  where  thoughtlessness  is  taught 
On  principle,  where  foppery  atones 
For  folly,  gallantry  for  every  vice. 

But,  slighted  as  it  is,  and  by  the  great 
Abandon’d,  and,  which  still  I more  regret, 

Infected  with  the  manners  and  the  modes 
It  knew  not  once,  the  country  wins  me  still. 

I never  framed  a wish,  or  form’d  a plan, 

That  flatter’d  me  with  hopes  of  earthly  bliss, 

But  there  I laid  the  scene.  There  early  stray’d 
My  fancy,  ere  yet  liberty  of  choice 
Had  found  me,  or  the  hope  of  being  free. 

My  very  dreams  were  rural ; rural  too 
The  first-born  efforts  of  my  youthful  Muse, 
Sportive  and  jingling  her  poetic  bells, 

Ere  yet  her  ear  was  mistress  of  their  powers. 

10* 


114 


THE  TASK. 


No  Bard  could  please  me  but  whose  lyre  was  tuned 
To  Nature’s  praises.  Heroes  and  their  feats 
Fatigued  me,  never  weary  of  the  pipe 
Of  Tityrus,  assembling,  as  he  sang, 

The  rustic  throng  beneath  his  favourite  beech. 

Then  Milton  had,  indeed,  a poet’s  charms : 

New  to  my  taste,  his  Paradise  surpass’d 
The  struggling  efforts  of  my  boyish  tongue, 

To  speak  its  excellence.  I danced  for  joy. 

I marvell’d  much  that,  at  so  ripe  an  age 
As  twice  seven  years,  his  beauties  had  then  first 
Engaged  my  wonder;  and  admiring  still, 

And  still  admiring,  with  regret  supposed 
The  joy  half  lost,  because  not  sooner  found. 

Thee  too,  enamour’d  of  the  life  I loved, 

Pathetic  in  its  praise,  in  its  pursuit 
Determined,  and  possessing  it  at  last 
With  transports  such  as  favour’d  lovers  feel, 

I studied,  prized,  and  wish’d  that  I had  known, 
Ingenious  Cowley!  and,  though  now  reclaim’d 
By  modern  lights  from  an  erroneous  taste, 

I cannot  but  lament  thy  splendid  wit 
Entangled  in  the  cobwebs  of  the  schools ; 

I still  revere  thee,  courtly  though  retired; 

Though  stretch’d  at  ease  in  Chertsey’s  silent  bowers, 
Not  unemploy’d;  and  finding  rich  amends 
For  a lost  world  in  solitude  and  verse. 

’Tis  born  with  all ; the  love  of  Nature’s  works 
Is  an  ingredient  in  the  compound  man, 

Infused  at  the  creation  of  the  kind. 

And,  though  the  Almighty  Maker  has  throughout 
Discriminated  each  from  each,  by  strokes 
And  touches  of  His  hand,  with  so  much  art 
Diversified,  that  two  were  never  found 


THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


115 


Twins  at  all  points — yet  this  obtains  in  all, 

That  all  discern  a beauty  in  His  works, 

And  all  can  taste  them  : minds,  that  have  been  form’d 
And  tutor’d,  with  a relish  more  exact, 

But  none  without  some  relish,  none  unmoved. 

It  is  a flame  that  dies  not  even  there, 

Where  nothing  feeds  it:  neither  business,  crowds, 
Nor  habits  of  luxurious  city  life, 

Whatever  else  they  smother  of  true  worth 
In  human  bosoms,  quench  it  or  abate. 

The  villas  with  which  London  stands  begirt, 

Like  a swarth  Indian  with  his  belt  of  beads, 

Prove  it.  A breath  of  unadulterate  air, 

The  glimpse  of  a green  pasture,  how  they  cheer 
The  citizen,  and  brace  his  languid  frame ! 

E’en  in  the  stifling  bosom  of  the  town, 

A garden,  in  which  nothing  thrives,  has  charms 
That  soothe  the  rich  possessor ; much  consoled, 

That  here  and  there  some  sprigs  of  mournful  mint, 

Of  nightshade,  or  valerian,  grace  the  well 
He  cultivates.  These  serve  him  with  a hint, 

That  Nature  lives;  that  sight-refreshing  green 
Is  still  the  livery  she  delights  to  wear, 

Though  sickly  samples  of  the  exuberant  whole. 

What  are  the  casements  lined  with  creeping  herbs, 
The  prouder  sashes  fronted  with  a range 
Of  orange,  myrtle,  or  the  fragrant  weed, 

The  Frenchman’s  darling;*  are  they  not  $11  proofs/ 
That  man,  immured  in  cities,  still  retains 
His  inborn  inextinguishable  thirst 
Of  rural  scenes,  compensating  his  loss 
By  supplemental  shifts,  the  best  he  mayX- 
The  most  unfurnish’d  with  the  means  of  life, 

* Mignonette. 


116 


THE  TASK. 


And  they  that  never  pass  their  brick-wall  bounds, 
To  range  the  fields,  and  treat  their  lungs  with  air, 
Yet  feel  the  burning  instinct;  overhead 
Suspend  their  crazy  boxes,  planted  thick, 

And  water’d  duly.  There  the  pitcher  stands 
A fragment,  and  the  spoutless  teapot  there ; 

Sad  witnesses  how  close-pent  man  regrets 
The  country,  with  what  ardour  he  contrives 
A peep  at  Nature,  when  he  can  no  more. 

Hail,  therefore,  patroness  of  health  and  ease, 
And  contemplation,  heart-consoling  joys, 

And  harmless  pleasures,  in  the  throng’d  abode 
Of  multitudes  unknown;  hail,  rural  life  ! 

Address  himself  who  will  to  the  pursuit 
Of  honours,  or  emolument,  or  fame ; 

I shall  not  add  myself  to  such  a chase, 

Thwart  his  attempts,  or  envy  his  success. 

Some  must  be  great.  Great  offices  will  have 
Great  talents.  And  God  gives  to  every  man 
The  virtue,  temper,  understanding,  taste, 

That  lifts  him  into  life,  and  lets  him  fall 
Just  in  the  niche  he  was  ordain’d  to  fill. 

To  the  deliverer  of  an  injured  land 
* He  gives  a tongue  to  enlarge  upon,  a heart 
To  feel,  and  courage  to  redress  her  wrongs  ; 

To  monarchs,  dignity;  to  judges,  sense; 

To  artists,  ingenuity  and  skill ; 

To  me,  an  unambitious  mind,  content 
In  the  low  vale  of  life,  that  early  felt 
A wish  for  ease  and  leisure,  and,  ere  long, 

Found  here  that  leisure  and  that  ease  I wish’d. 


THE  TASK. 

BOOK  V THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


ARGUMENT. 

A frosty  morning.  The  foddering  of  cattle.  The  woodman  and 
his  dog.  The  poultry.  Whimsical  effects  of  frost  at  a waterfall.  The 
Empress  of  Russia’s  palace  of  ice.  Amusements  of  monarchs : — war, 
one  of  them.  Wars,  whence ; and  whence  monarchy.  The  evils 
of  it.  English  and  French  loyalty  contrasted.  The  Bastille,  and  a 
prisoner  there.  Liberty  the  chief  recommendation  of  this  country. 
Modern  patriotism  questionable,  and  why.  The  perishable  nature  of 
the  best  human  institutions.  Spiritual  liberty  not  perishable.  The 
slavish  state  of  man  by  nature.  Deliver  him,  Deist,  if  you  can.  Grace 
must  do  it.  The  respective  merits  of  patriots  and  martyrs  stated. 
Their  different  treatment.  Happy  freedom  of  the  man  whom  grace 
makes  free.  His  relish  of  the  works  of  God.  Address  to  the  Creator. 


118 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

WIHSIT?  fif  ILUHQIS 


‘"Tis  morning;  and.  the  Sun,  with  ruddy  ort 
Ascending,  fires  the  horizon;1' 


THE  TASK. 


BOOK  V. THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 

’Tis  morning ; and  the  Sun,  with  ruddy  orb 
Ascending,  fires  the  horizon  ; while  the  clouds, 
That  crowd  away  before  the  driving  wind, 

More  ardent  as  the  disk  emerges  more, 

Resemble  most  some  city  in  a blaze, 

Seen  through  the  leafless  wood.  His  slanting  ray 
Slides  ineffectual  down  the  snowy  vale, 

And,  tinging  all  with  his  own  rosy  hue, 

From  every  herb  and  every  spiry  blade 
Stretches  a length  of  shadow  o’er  the  field. 

Mine,  spindling  into  longitude  immense, 

In  spite  of  gravity,  and  sage  remark 
That  I myself  am  but  a fleeting  shade, 

Provokes  me  to  a smile.  With  eye  askance 
I view  the  muscular  proportion’d  limb 
Transform’d  to  a lean  shank.  The  shapeless  pair, 
As  they  design’d  to  mock  me,  at  my  side 
Take  step  for  step ; and,  as  I near  approach 
The  cottage,  walk  along  the  plaster’d  wall, 
Preposterous  sight ! the  legs  without  the  man. 

The  verdure  of  the  plain  lies  buried  deep 
Beneath  the  dazzling  deluge  ; and  the  bents 
And  coarser  grass  up-spearing  o’er  the  rest, 

119 


120 


THE  TASK. 


Of  late  unsightly  and  unseen,  now  shine 
Conspicuous,  and  in  bright  apparel  clad, 

And,  fledged  with  icy  feathers,  nod  superb. 

The  cattle  mourn  in  corners,  where  the  fence 
Screens  them,  and  seem  half  petrified  to  sleep 
In  unrecumbent  sadness.  There  they  wait 
Their  wonted  fodder ; not  like  hungering  man, 
Fretful  if  unsupplied  ; but  silent,  meek, 

And  patient  of  the  slow-paced  swain’s  delay. 

He  from  the  stack  carves  out  the  accustom’d  load, 
Deep-plunging,  and  again  deep-plunging  oft, 

His  broad  keen  knife  into  the  solid  mass  : 

Smooth  as  a wall  the  upright  remnant  stands, 

With  such  undeviating  and  even  force 
He  severs  it  away : no  needless  care 
Lest  storms  should  overset  the  leaning  pile 
Deciduous,  or  its  own  imbalanced  weight. 

Forth  goes  the  woodman,  leaving  unconcern’d 
The  cheerful  haunts  of  man,  to  wield  the  axe, 

And  drive  the  wedge,  in  yonder  forest  drear; 

From  morn  to  eve  his  solitary  task. 

Shaggy,  and  lean,  and  shrewd,  with  pointed  ears, 
And  tail  cropp’d  short,  half  lurcher  and  half  cur, 
His  dog  attends  him.  Close  behind  his  heel 
Now  creeps  he  slow ; and  now,  with  many  a frisk 
Wide-scampering,  snatches  up  the  drifted  snow 
With  ivory  teeth,  or  ploughs  it  with  his  snout ; 
Then  shakes  his  powder’d  coat,  and  barks  for  joy. 
Heedless  of  all  his  pranks,  the  sturdy  churl 
Moves  right  toward  the  mark ; nor  stops  for  aught, 
But  now  and  then,  with  pressure  of  his  thumb 
To  adjust  the  fragrant  charge  of  a short  tube 
That  fumes  beneath  his  nose : the  trailing  cloud 
Streams  far  behind  him,  scenting  all  the  air. 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


121 


Now  from  the  roost,  or  from  the  neighbouring  pale, 
Where,  diligent  to  catch  the  first  faint  gleam 
Of  smiling  day,  they  gossip’d  side  by  side, 

Come  trooping  at  the  housewife’s  well-known  call 
The  feather’d  tribes  domestic.  Half  on  wing, 

And  half  on  foot,  they  brush  the  fleecy  flood, 
Conscious  and  fearful  of  too  deep  a plunge. 

The  Sparrows  peep,  and  quit  the  sheltering  eaves, 

To  seize  the  fair  occasion ; well  they  eye 
The  scatter’d  grain,  and,  thievishly  resolved 
To  escape  the  impending  famine,  often  scared, 

As  oft  return,  a pert  voracious  kind. 

Clean  riddance  quickly  made,  one  only  care 
Remains  to  each,  the  search  of  sunny  nook, 

Or  shed  impervious  to  the  blast.  Resign’d 

To  sad  necessity,  the  Cock  foregoes 

His  wonted  strut ; and,  wading  at  their  head, 

With  well-consider’d  steps,  seems  to  resent 
His  alter’d  gait  and  stateliness  retrench’d. 

How  find  the  myriads,  that  in  summer  cheer 
The  hills  and  valleys  with  their  ceaseless  songs, 

Due  sustenance,  or  where  subsist  they  now  ? 

Earth  yields  them  nought ; the  imprison’d  worm  is  safe 
Beneath  the  frozen  clod ; all  seeds  of  herbs 
Lie  cover’d  close ; and  berry-bearing  thorns, 

That  feed  the  Thrush,  (whatever  some  suppose,) 
Alford  the  smaller  minstrels  no  supply. 

The  long-protracted  rigour  of  the  year 

Thins  all  their  numerous  flocks.  In  chinks  and  holes 

Ten  thousand  seek  an  unmolested  end, 

As  instinct  prompts ; self-buried  ere  they  die. 

The  very  Rooks  and  Daws  forsake  the  fields, 

Where  neither  grub,  nor  root,  nor  earth-nut,  now 
Repays  their  labour  more;  and,  perch’d  aloft 
11 


122 


THE  TASK. 


By  the  wayside,  or  stalking  in  the  path, 

Lean  pensioners  upon  the  traveller’s  track, 

Pick  up  their  nauseous  dole,  though  sweet  to  them, 
Of  voided  pulse  or  half-digested  grain. 

The  streams  are  lost  amid  the  splendid  blank, 
O’erwhelming  all  distinction.  On  the  flood, 
Indurated  and  fix’d,  the  snowy  weight 
Lies  undissolved;  while  silently  beneath, 

And  unperceived,  the  current  steals  away. 

Not  so  where,  scornful  of  a check,  it  leaps 
The  mill-dam,  dashes  on  the  restless  wheel, 

And  wantons  in  the  pebbly  gulf  below. 

No  frost  can  bind  it  there.  Its  utmost  force 
Can  but  arrest  the  light  and  smoky  mist, 

That  in  its  fall  the  liquid  sheet  throws  wide. 

And  see  where  it  has  hung  the  embroider’d  banks 
With  forms  so  various,  that  no  powers  of  art, 

The  pencil  or  the  pen,  may  trace  the  scene ! 

Here  glittering  turrets  rise,  upbearing  high 
(Fantastic  misarrangement !)  on  the  roof 
Large  growth  of  what  may  seem  the  sparkling  trees 
And  shrubs  of  fairy  land.  The  crystal  drops, 

That  trickle  down  the  branches,  fast  congeal’d, 
Shoot  into  pillars  of  pellucid  length, 

And  prop  the  pile  they  but  adorn’d  before. 

Here  grotto  within  grotto  safe  defies 
The  sunbeam  ; there,  emboss’d  and  fretted  wild, 
The  growing  wonder  takes  a thousand  shapes 
Capricious,  in  which  fancy  seeks  in  vain 
The  likeness  of  some  object  seen  before. 

Thus  Nature  works  as  if  to  mock  at  Art, 

And  in  defiance  of  her  rival  powers ; 

By  these  fortuitous  and  random  strokes 
Performing  such  inimitable  feats 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


123 


As  she,  with  all  her  rules,  can  never  reach. 

Less  worthy  of  applause,  though  more  admired, 
Because  a novelty,  the  work  of  man, 

Imperial  mistress  of  the  fur-clad  Russ  ! 

Thy  most  magnificent  and  mighty  freak, 

The  wonder  of  the  North.  No  forest  fell 
When  thou  wouldst  build;  no  quarry  sent  its  stores 
To  enrich  thy  walls : but  thou  didst  hew  the  floods, 
And  make  thy  marble  of  the  glassy  wave. 

In  such  a palace  Aristaeus  found 

Cyrene,  when  he  bore  the  plaintive  tale  * 

Of  his  lost  Bees  to  her  maternal  ear: 

In  such  a palace  Poetry  might  place 
The  armory  of  winter;  where  his  troops, 

The  gloomy  clouds,  find  weapons,  arrowy  sleet, 
Skin-piercing  volley,  blossom-bruising  hail, 

And  snow,  that  often  blinds  the  traveller’s  course, 
And  wraps  him  in  an  unexpected  tomb. 

Silently  as  a dream  the  fabric  rose ; 

No  sound  of  hammer  or  of  saw  was  there : 

Ice  upon  ice,  the  well-adjusted  parts 
Were  soon  conjoin’d,  nor  other  cement  ask’d 
Than  water  interfused  to  make  them  one. 

Lamps  gracefully  disposed,  and  of  all  hues, 

Illumined  every  side : a watery  light 
Gleam’d  through  the  clear  transparency,  that  seem’d 
Another  moon  new  risen,  or  meteor  fallen 
From  Heaven  to  earth,  of  lambent  flame  serene. 

So  stood  the  brittle  prodigy ; though  smooth 
And  slippery  the  materials,  yet  frost-bound 
Firm  as  a rock.  Nor  wanted  aught  within, 

That  royal  residence  might  well  befit, 

For  grandeur  or  for  use.  Long  wavy  wreaths 
Of  flowers,  that  fear’d  no  enemy  but  warmth, 


124 


THE  TASK. 


Blush’d  on  the  panels.  Mirror  needed  none 
Where  all  was  vitreous ; but,  in  order  due, 

Convivial  table  and  commodious  seat 

(What  seem’d,  at  least,  commodious  seat)  were  there ; 

Sofa,  and  couch,  and  high-built  throne  august. 

The  same  lubricity  was  found  in  all : 

And  all  was  moist  to  the  warm  touch;  a scene 
Of  evanescent  glory,  once  a stream, 

And  soon  to  slide  into  a stream  again. 

Alas!  ’twas  but  a mortifying  stroke 
Of  undesign’d  severity,  that  glanced 
(Made  by  a monarch)  on  her  own  estate, 

On  human  grandeur  and  the  courts  of  kings. 

’Twas  transient  in  its  nature,  as  in  show 
’Twas  durable ; as  worthless  as  it  seem’d 
Intrinsically  precious ; to  the  foot 
Treacherous  and  false  ; it  smiled,  and  it  was  cold. 

Great  princes  have  great  playthings.  Some  have  play’d 
At  hewing  mountains  into  men,  and  some 
At  building  human  wonders  mountain-high. 

Some  have  amused  the  dull  sad  years  of  life 
(Life  spent  in  indolence,  and  therefore  sad,) 

With  schemes  of  monumental  fame;  and  sought, 

By  pyramids  and  mausolean  pomp, 

Short-lived  themselves,  to  immortalize  their  bones. 
Some  seek  diversion  in  the  tented  field, 

And  make  the  sorrows  of  mankind  their  sport. 

But  war’s  a game,  which,  were  their  subjects  wise, 
Kings  would  not  play  at.  Nations  would  do  well 
To  extort  their  truncheons  from  the  puny  hands 
Of  heroes  whose  infirm  and  baby  minds 
Are  gratified  with  mischief ; and  who  spoil, 

Because  men  suffer  it,  their  toy  the  world. 

When  Babel  was  confounded,  and  the  great 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


125 


Confederacy  of  projectors  wild  and  vain 
Was  split  into  diversity  of  tongues, 

Then,  as  a shepherd  separates  his  flock, 

These  to  the  upland,  to  the  valley  those, 

God  drave  asunder,  and  assign’d  their  lot 
To  all  the  nations.  Ample  was  the  boon 
He  gave  them,  in  its  distribution  fair 
And  equal ; and  He  bade  them  dwell  in  peace. 

Peace  was  awhile  their  care : they  plough’d  and  sow’d, 
And  reap’d  their  plenty  without  grudge  or  strife. 

But  violence  can  never  longer  sleep 

Than  human  passions  please.  In  every  heart 

Are  sown  the  sparks  that  kindle  fiery  war  ; 

Occasion  needs  but  fan  them,  and  they  blaze 
i Cain  had  already  shed  a brother’s  blood: 

The  deluge  wash’d  it  out;  but  left  unquench’d 
The  seeds  of  murder  in  the  breast  of  man. 

Soon,  by  a righteous  judgment,  in  the  line 
Of  his  descending  progeny  was  found 
The  first  artificer  of  death;  the  shrewd 
Contriver,  who  first  sweated  at  the  forge, 

And  forced  the  blunt  and  yet  unbloodied  steel 
To  a keen  edge,  and  made  it  bright  for  war. 

Him,  Tubal  named,  the  Vulcan  of  old  times, 

The  sword  and  falchion  their  inventor  claim  ; 

And  the  first  smith  was  the  first  murderer’s  son. 

His  art  survived  the  waters ; and,  ere  long, 

When  man  was  multiplied  and  spread  abroad 
In  tribes  and  clans,  and  had  begun  to  call 
These  meadows  and  that  range  of  hills  his  own, 

The  tasted  sweets  of  property  begat 
Desire  of  more ; and  industry  in  some, 

To  improve  and  cultivate  their  just  demesne, 

Made  others  covet  what  they  saw  so  fair. 

11* 


126 


THE  TASK. 


Thus  war  began  on  earth : these  fought  for  spoil, 
And  those  in  self-defence.  Savage  at  first 
The  onset,  and  irregular.  At  length 
One  eminent  above  the  rest  for  strength, 

For  stratagem,  for  courage,  or  for  all, 

Was  chosen  leader;  him  they  served  in  war, 

And  him  in  peace,  for  sake  of  warlike  deeds 
Reverenced  no  less.  Who  could  with  him  compare 
Or  who  so  worthy  to  control  themselves, 

As  he  whose  prowess  had  subdued  their  foes  ? 

Thus  war,  affording  field  for  the  display 
Of  virtue,  made  one  chief,  whom  times  of  peace, 
Which  have  their  exigencies  too,  and  call 
For  skill  in  government,  at  length  made  King. 

King  was  a name  too  proud  for  man  to  wear 
With  modesty  and  meekness ; and  the  crown, 

So  dazzling  in  their  eyes  who  set  it  on, 

Was  sure  to  intoxicate  the  brows  it  bound. 

It  is  the  abject  property  of  most, 

That,  being  parcel  of  the  common  mass, 

And  destitute  of  means  to  raise  themselves, 

They  sink,  and  settle  lower  than  they  need. 

They  know  not  what  it  is  to  feel  within 
A comprehensive  faculty,  that  grasps 
Great  purposes  with  ease,  that  turns  and  wields, 
Almost  without  an  effort,  plans  too  vast 
For  their  conception,  which  they  cannot  move. 
Conscious  of  impotence,  they  soon  grow  drunk 
With  gazing,  when  they  see  an  able  man 
Step  forth  to  notice  ; and,  besotted  thus, 

Build  him  a pedestal,  and  say,  u Stand  there, 

And  be  our  admiration  and  our  praise!” 

They  roll  themselves  before  him  in  the  dust ; 

Then  most  deserving,  in  their  own  account, 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


127 


When  most  extravagant  in  his  applause, 

As  if  exalting  him  they  raised  themselves. 

Thus,  by  degrees,  self-cheated  of  their  sound 
And  sober  judgment,  that  he  is  but  man 
They  demi-deify  and  fume  him  so, 

That  in  due  season  he  forgets  it  too. 

Inflated  and  astrut  with  self-conceit, 

He  gulps  the  windy  diet;  and,  ere  long, 

Adopting  their  mistake,  profoundly  thinks 
The  world  was  made  in  vain,  if  not  for  him. 
Thenceforth  they  are  his  cattle : drudges,  born 
To  bear  his  burdens,  drawing  in  his  gears, 

And  sweating  in  his  service.  His  caprice 
Becomes  the  soul  that  animates  them  all. 

He  deems  a thousand,  or  ten  thousand  lives, 

Spent  in  the  purchase  of  renown  for  him, 

An  easy  reckoning ; and  they  think  the  same. 

Thus  Kings  were  first  invented,  and  thus  Kings 
Were  burnish’d  into  heroes,  and  became 
The  arbiters  of  this  terraqueous  swamp ; 

Storks  among  Frogs,  that  have  but  croak’d  and  died. 
Strange,  that  such  folly  as  lifts  bloated  man 
To  eminence  fit  only  for  a god, 

Should  ever  drivel  out  of  human  lips, 

E’en  in  the  cradled  weakness  of  the  world ! 

Still  stranger  much,  that  when  at  length  mankind 
Had  reach’d  the  sinewy  firmness  of  their  youth, 

And  could  discriminate  and  argue  well 
On  subjects  more  mysterious,  they  were  yet 
Babes  in  the  cause  of  freedom,  and  should  fear 
And  quake  before  the  gods  themselves  had  made. 
But  above  measure  strange,  that  neither  proof 
Of  sad  experience,  nor  examples  set 
By  some,  whose  patriot  virtue  has  prevail’d, 


128 


THE  TASK. 


Can  even  now,  when  they  are  grown  mature 
In  wisdom,  and  with  philosophic  deeds 
Familiar,  serve  to  emancipate  the  rest! 

Such  dupes  are  men  to  custom,  and  so  prone 
To  reverence  what  is  ancient,  and  can  plead 
A course  of  long  observance  for  its  use, 

That  even  servitude,  the  worst  of  ills, 

Because  deliver’d  down  from  sire  to  son, 

Is  kept  and  guarded  as  a sacred  thing. 

But  is  it  fit,  or  can  it  bear  the  shock 
Of  rational  discussion,  that  a man, 

Compounded  and  made  up,  like  other  men, 

Of  elements  tumultuous,  in  whom  lust 
And  folly  in  as  ample  measure  meet 
As  in  the  bosoms  of  the- slaves  he  rules, 

Should  be  a despot  absolute,  and  boast 
Himself  the  only  freeman  of  his  land  ? 

Should,  when  he  pleases,  and  on  whom  he  will, 
Wage  war,  with  any  or  with  no  pretence 
Of  provocation  given,  or  wrong  sustain’d, 

And  force  the  beggarly  last  doit,  by  means 
That  his  own  humour  dictates,  from  the  clutch 
Of  Poverty,  that  thus  he  may  procure 
His  thousands,  weary  of  penurious  life, 

A splendid  opportunity  to  die  ? 

Say  ye,  who  (with  less  prudence  than  of  old 
Jotham  ascribed  to  his  assembled  trees 
In  politic  convention)  put  your  trust 
In  the  shadow  of  a bramble,  and,  reclined 
In  fancied  peace  beneath  his  dangerous  branch, 
Rejoice  in  him,  and  celebrate  his  sway, 

Where  find  ye  passive  fortitude  ? Whence  springs 
Your  self-denying  zeal,  that  holds  it  good 
To  stroke  the  prickly  grievance,  and  to  hang 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


129 


His  thorns  with  streamers  of  continual  praise  ? 

We,  too,  are  friends  to  loyalty.  We  love 
The  King  who  loves  the  law,  respects  his  bounds, 
And  reigns  content  with  them : him  we  serve 
Freely  and  with  delight  who  leaves  us  free : 

But,  recollecting  still  that  he  is  man, 

We  trust  him  not  too  far.  King  though  he  be, 
And  King  in  England  too,  he  may  be  weak, 

And  vain  enough  to  be  ambitious  still ; 

May  exercise  amiss  his  proper  powers, 

Or  covet  more  than  freemen  choose  to  grant: 
Beyond  that  mark  is  treason.  He  is  ours, 

To  administer,  to  guard,  to  adorn  the  state, 

But  not  to  warp  or  change  it.  We  are  his, 

To  serve  him  nobly  in  the  common  cause, 

True  to  the  death,  but  not  to  be  his  slaves. 

Mark  now  the  difference,  ye  that  boast  your  love 
Of  Kings,  between  your  loyalty  and  ours. 

We  love  the  man,  the  paltry  pageant  you ; 

We,  the  chief  patron  of  the  commonwealth; 

You,  the  regardless  author  of  its  woes: 

We,  for  the  sake  of  liberty,  a King ; 

You,  chains  and  bondage  for  a tyrant’s  sake. 

Our  love  is  principle,  and  has  its  root 
In  reason,  is  judicious,  manly,  free  ; 

Yours,  a blind  instinct,  crouches  to  the  rod, 

And  licks  the  foot  that  treads  it  in  the  dust. 

Were  kingship  as  true  treasure  as  it  seems, 
Sterling,  and  worthy  of  a wise  man’s  wish, 

I would  not  be  a King  to  be  beloved 
Causeless,  and  daub’d  with  undiscerning  praise, 
Where  love  is  mere  attachment  to  the  throne, 

Not  to  the  man  who  fills  it  as  he  ought. 

Whose  freedom  is  by  sufferance,  and  at  will 


130 


THE  TASK. 


Of  a superior,  he  is  never  free. 

Who  lives,  and  is  not  weary  of  a life 
Exposed  to  manacles,  deserves  them  well. 

The  state  that  strives  for  liberty,  though  foil’d, 

And  forced  to  abandon  what  she  bravely  sought, 
Deserves,  at  least,  applause  for  her  attempt, 

And  pity  for  her  loss.  But  that’s  a cause 
Not  often  unsuccessful : power  usurp’d 
Is  weakness  when  opposed ; conscious  of  wrong, 

’Tis  pusillanimous  and  prone  to  flight. 

But  slaves  that  once  conceive  the  glowing  thought 

Of  freedom,  in  that  hope  itself  possess 

All  that  the  contest  calls  for ; spirit,  strength, 

The  scorn  of  danger,  and  united  hearts  ; 

The  surest  presage  of  the  good  they  seek.* 

Then  shame  to  manhood,  and  opprobrious  more 
To  France  than  all  her  losses  and  defeats, 

Old  or  of  later  date,  by  sea  or  land, 

Her  house  of  bondage  worse  than  that  of  old 
Which  God  avenged  on  Pharaoh — the  Bastille. 

Ye  horrid  towers,  the  abode  of  broken  hearts; 

Ye  dungeons  and  ye  cages  of  despair, 

That  monarchs  have  supplied  from  age  to  age 
With  music,  such  as  suits  their  sovereign  ears, 

The  sighs  and  groans  of  miserable  men ! 

There’s  not  an  English  heart  that  would  not  leap 
To  hear  that  ye  were  fallen  at  last;  to  know 
That  e’en  our  enemies,  so  oft  employ’d 
In  forging  chains  for  us,  themselves  were  free. 

* The  author  hopes  that  he  shall  not  be  censured  for  unnecessary 
warmth  upon  so  interesting  a subject.  He  is  aware  that  it  is  become 
almost  fashionable  to  stigmatize  such  sentiments  as  no  better  than 
empty  declamation ; but  it  is  an  ill  symptom,  and  peculiar  to  modern 
times. 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


131 


For  he,  who  values  Liberty,  confines 
His  zeal  for  her  predominance  within 
No  narrow  bounds ; her  cause  engages  him 
Wherever  pleaded.  ’Tis  the  cause  of  man. 

There  dwell  the  most  forlorn  of  human  kind, 
Immured  though  unaccused,  condemn’d  untried, 
Cruelly  spared,  and  hopeless  of  escape. 

There,  like  the  visionary  emblem  seen 
By  him  of  Babylon,  life  stands  a stump, 

And,  filleted  about  with  hoops  of  brass, 

Still  lives,  though  all  his  pleasant  boughs  are  gone 
To  count  the  hour-bell,  and  expect  no  change ; 
And  ever,  as  the  sullen  sound  is  heard, 

Still  to  reflect  that,  though  a joyless  note 
To  him  whose  moments  all  have  one  dull  pace, 
Ten  thousand  rovers  in  the  world  at  large 
Account  it  music ; that  it  summons  some 
To  theatre,  or  jocund  feast,  or  ball: 

The  wearied  hireling  finds  it  a release 
From  labour ; and  the  lover,  who  has  chid 
Its  long  delay,  feels  every  welcome  stroke 
Upon  his  heart-strings,  trembling  with  delight: — 
To  fly  for  refuge  from  distracting  thought 
To  such  amusements  as  ingenious  Woe 
Contrives,  hard-shifting,  and  without  her  tools; — 
To  read,  engraven  on  the  mouldy  walls, 

In  staggering  types,  his  predecessor’s  tale, 

A sad  memorial,  and  subjoin  his  own: — 

To  turn  purveyor  to  an  overgorged 
And  bloated  Spider,  till  the  pamper’d  pest 
Is  made  familiar,  watches  his  approach, 

Comes  at  his  call,  and  serves  him  for  a friend: — 
To  wear  out  time  in  numbering  to  and  fro 
The  studs  that  thick  emboss  his  iron  door ; 


132 


THE  TASK. 


Then  downward  and  then  upward,  then  aslant 
And  then  alternate  ; with  a sickly  hope 
By  dint  of  change  to  give  his  tasteless  task 
Some  relish ; till  the  sum,  exactly  found 
In  all  directions,  he  begins  again: — 

Oh  comfortless  existence ! hemm’d  around 
With  woes,  which  who  that  suffers  would  not  kneel 
And  beg  for  exile,  or  the  pangs  of  death  ? 

That  man  should  thus  encroach  on  fellow  man, 
Abridge  him  of  his  just  and  native  rights, 

Eradicate  him,  tear  him  from  his  hold 
Upon  the  endearments  of  domestic  life 
And  social,  nip  his  fruitfulness  and  use, 

And  doom  him,  for,  perhaps,  a heedless  word, 

To  barrenness,  and  solitude,  and  tears, 

Moves  indignation,  makes  the  name  of  King 
(Of  King  whom  such  prerogative  can  please) 

As  dreadful  as  the  Manichean  god, 

Adored  through  fear,  strong  only  to  destroy. 

’Tis  liberty  alone  that  gives  the  flower 
Of  fleeting  life  its  lustre  and  perfume ; 

And  we  are  weeds  without  it.  All  constraint, 
Except  what  wisdom  lays  on  evil  men, 

Is  evil : hurts  the  faculties,  impedes 
Their  progress  in  the  road  of  science ; blinds 
The  eyesight  of  discovery  ; and  begets, 

In  those  that  suffer  it,  a sordid  mind, 

Bestial,  a meagre  intellect,  unfit 
To  be  the  tenant  of  man’s  noble  form. 

Thee,  therefore,  still,  blameworthy  as  thou  art, 

With  all  thy  loss  of  empire,  and  though  squeezed 
By  public  exigence,  till  annual  food 
Fails  for  the  craving  hunger  of  the  state, 

Thee  I account  still  happy,  and  the  chief 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


133 


Among  the  nations,  seeing  thou  art  free ; 

My  native  nook  of  earth ! Thy  clime  is  rude, 
Replete  with  vapours,  and  disposes  much 
All  hearts  to  sadness,  and  none  more  than  mine  : 
Thine  unadulterate  manners  are  less  soft 
And  plausible  than  social  life  requires, 

And  thou  hast  need  of  discipline  and  art, 

To  give  thee  what  politer  France  receives 
From  Nature’s  bounty — that  humane  address 
And  sweetness,  without  which  no  pleasure  is 
In  converse,  either  starved  by  cold  reserve, 

Or  flush’d  with  fierce  dispute,  a senseless  brawl. 

Yet  being  free,  I love  thee:  for  the  sake 
Of  that  one  feature  can  be  well  content, 

Disgraced  as  thou  hast  been,  poor  as  thou  art, 

To  seek  no  sublunary  rest  beside. 

But  once  enslaved,  farewell ! I could  endure 
Chains  nowhere  patiently  ; and  chains  at  home, 
Where  I am  free  by  birthright,  not  at  all. 

Then  what  were  left  of  roughness  in  the  grain 
Of  British  natures,  wanting  its  excuse 
That  it  belongs  to  freemen,  would  disgust 
And  shock  me.  I should  then,  with  double  pain, 
Feel  all  the  rigour  of  thy  fickle  clime ; 

And,  if  I must  bewail  the  blessing  lost, 

For  which  our  Hampdens  and  our  Sidneys  bled, 

I would,  at  least,  bewail  it  under  skies 
Milder,  among  a people  less  austere  ; 

In  scenes  which,  having  never  known  me  free, 
Would  not  reproach  me  with  the  loss  I felt. 

Do  I forebode  impossible  events, 

And  tremble  at  vain  dreams  ? Heaven  grant  I may  ! 
But  the  age  of  virtuous  politics  is  past, 

And  we  are  deep  in  that  of  cold  pretence. 

12 


134 


THE  TASK. 


Patriots  are  grown  too  shrewd  to  be  sincere, 

And  we  too  wise  to  trust  them.  He  that  takes 
Deep,  in  his  soft  credulity,  the  stamp 
Design’d  by  loud  declaimers  on  the  part 
Of  liberty,  themselves  the  slaves  of  lust, 

Incurs  derision  for  his  easy  faith 

And  lack  of  knowledge,  and  with  cause  enough  : 

For  when  was  public  virtue  to  be  found, 

Where  private  was  not?  Can  he  love  the  whole, 
Who  loves  no  part?  he  be  a nation’s  friend, 

Who  is,  in  truth,  the  friend  of  no  man  there? 

Can  he  be  strenuous  in  his  country’s  cause, 

Who  slights  the  charities  for  whose  dear  sake 
That  country,  if  at  all,  must  be  beloved  ? 

’Tis  therefore  sober  and  good  men  are  sad 
For  England’s  glory,  seeing  it  wax  pale 
And  sickly,  while  her  champions  wear  their  hearts 
So  loose  to  private  duty,  that  no  brain, 

Healthful  and  undisturb’d  by  factious  fumes, 

Can  dream  them  trusty  to  the  general  weal. 

Such  were  not  they  of  old,  whose  temper’d  blades 
Dispersed  the  shackles  of  usurp’d  control, 

And  liew’d  them  link  from  link.  Then  Albion’s  sons 
Were  sons  indeed.  They  felt  a filial  heart 
Beat  high  within  them  at  a mother’s  wrongs  ; 

And,  shining,  each  in  his  domestic  sphere, 

Shone  brighter  still,  once  call’d  to  public  view. 

’Tis  therefore  many,  whose  sequester’d  lot 
Forbids  their  interference,  looking  on, 

Anticipate  perforce  some  dire  event ; 

And,  seeing  the  old  castle  of  the  state, 

That  promised,  once,  more  firmness,  so  assail’d, 

That  all  its  tempest-beaten  turrets  shake, 

Stand  motionless  expectants  of  its  fall. 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


135 


All  has  its  date  below  ; the  fatal  hour 
Was  register’d  in  Heaven  ere  time  began. 

We  turn  to  dust,  and  all  our  mightiest  works 
Die  too : the  deep  foundations  that  we  lay, 

Time  ploughs  them  up,  and  not  a trace  remains. 
We  build  with  what  we  deem  eternal  rock : 

A distant  age  asks  where  the  fabric  stood  ; 

And  in  the  dust,  sifted  and  search’d  in  vain, 

The  undiscoverable  secret  sleeps. 

But  there  is  yet  a liberty  unsung 
By  poets,  and  by  senators  unpraised, 

Which  monarchs  cannot  grant,  nor  all  the  powers 
Of  earth  and  Hell  confederate  take  away : 

A liberty,  which  persecution,  fraud, 

Oppression,  prisons,  have  no  power  to  bind ; 
Which  whoso  tastes  can  be  enslaved  no  more. 
’Tis  liberty  of  heart,  derived  from  Heaven, 
Bought  with  His  blood  who  gave  it  to  mankind, 
And  seal’d  with  the  same  token.  It  is  held 
By  charter,  and  that  charter  sanction’d  sure 
By  the  unimpeachable  and  awful  oath 
And  promise  of  a God.  His  other  gifts 
All  bear  the  royal  stamp  that  speaks  them  His, 
And  are  august ; but  this  transcends  them  all. 

His  other  works,  the  visible  display 
Of  all-creating  energy  and  might, 

Are  grand,  no  doubt,  and  worthy  of  the  word, 
That,  finding  an  interminable  space 
Unoccupied,  has  filled  the  void  so  well, 

And  made  so  sparkling  what  was  dark  before. 

But  these  are  not  His  glory.  Man,  ’tis  true, 

Smit  with  the  beauty  of  so  fair  a scene, 

Might  well  suppose  the  Artificer  divine 
Meant  it  eternal,  had  He  not  Himself 


136 


THE  TASK. 


Pronounced  it  transient,  glorious  as  it  is, 

And,  still  designing  a more  glorious  far, 
Doom’d  it  as  insufficient  for  His  praise. 
These,  therefore,  are  occasional,  and  pass. 
Form’d  for  the  confutation  of  the  fool, 

Whose  lying  heart  disputes  against  a God ; 
That  office  served,  they  must  be  swept  away. 
Not  so  the  labours  of  His  love  : they  shine 
In  other  heavens  than  these  that  we  behold, 
And  fade  not.  There  is  Paradise  that  fears 
No  forfeiture,  and  of  its  fruits  He  sends 
Large  prelibation  oft  to  saints  below. 

Of  these  the  first  in  order,  and  the  pledge, 
And  confident  assurance  of  the  rest, 

Is  Liberty ; a flight  into  His  arms, 

Ere  yet  mortality’s  fine  threads  give  way, 

A clear  escape  from  tyrannizing  lust, 

And  full  immunity  from  penal  woe. 

Chains  are  the  portion  of  revolted  man, 
Stripes,  and  a dungeon;  and  his  body  serves 
The  triple  purpose.  In  that  sickly,  foul, 
Opprobrious  residence,  he  finds  them  all. 
Propense  his  heart  to  idols,  he  is  held 
In  silly  dotage  on  created  things, 

Careless  of  their  Creator.  And  that  low 
And  sordid  gravitation  of  his  powers 
To  a vile  clod,  so  draws  him  with  such  force 
Resistless  from  the  centre  he  should  seek, 
That  he  at  last  forgets  it.  All  his  hopes 
Tend  downward  : his  ambition  is  to  sink, 

To  reach  a depth  profounder  still,  and  still 
Profounder,  in  the  fathomless  abyss 
Of  folly,  plunging  in  pursuit  of  death. 

But  ere  he  gain  the  comfortless  repose 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


137 


He  seeks,  and  acquiescence  of  his  soul 
In  Heaven-renouncing  exile,  he  endures — 

What  does  he  not,  from  lusts  opposed  in  vain, 

And  self-reproaching  conscience  ? He  foresees 
The  fatal  issue  to  his  health,  fame,  peace, 

Fortune,  and  dignity;  the  loss  of  all 
That  can  ennoble  man,  and  make  frail  life, 

Short  as  it  is,  supportable.  Still  worse, 

Far  worse  than  all  the  plagues  with  which  his  sins 
Infect  his  happiest  moments,  he  forebodes 
Ages  of  hopeless  misery.  Future  death, 

And  death  still  future.  Not  a hasty  stroke, 

Like  that  which  sends  him  to  the  dusty  grave ; 

But  unrepealable,  enduring  death. 

Scripture  is  still  a trumpet  to  his  fears : 

What  none  can  prove  a forgery,  may  be  true ; 

What  none  but  bad  men  wish  exploded,  must. 

That  scruple  checks  him.  Riot  is  not  loud 
Nor  drunk  enough  to  drown  it.  In  the  midst 
Of  laughter  his  compunctions  are  sincere, 

And  he  abhors  the  jest  by  which  he  shines. 

Remorse  begets  reform.  His  master-lust 
Falls  first  before  his  resolute  rebuke, 

And  seems  dethroned  and  vanquish’d.  Peace  ensues, 
But  spurious  and  shortlived ; the  puny  child 
Of  self-congratulating  Pride,  begot 
On  fancied  Innocence.  Again  he  falls, 

And  fights  again;  but  finds  his  best  essay 
A presage  ominous,  portending  still 
Its  own  dishonour  by  a worse  relapse. 

Till  Nature,  unavailing  Nature,  foil’d 
So  oft,  and  wearied  in  the  vain  attempt, 

Scoffs  at  her  own  performance.  Reason  now 
Takes  part  with  appetite,  and  pleads  the  cause, 

12* 


138 


THE  TASK. 


Perversely,  which  of  late  she  so  condemn’d; 

With  shallow  shifts  and  old  devices,  worn 
And  tatter’d  in  the  service  of  debauch, 

Covering  his  shame  from  his  offended  sight. 

44  Hath  God  indeed  given  appetites  to  man, 

44  And  stored  the  earth  so  plenteously  with  means 
44  To  gratify  the  hunger  of  his  wish ; 

44  And  doth  He  reprobate,  and  will  He  damn 
44  The  use  of  His  own  bounty?  making  first 
44  So  frail  a kind,  and  then  enacting  laws 
44 So  strict,  that  less  than  perfect  must  despair? 

44  Falsehood!  which  whoso  but  suspects  of  truth 
44  Dishonours  God,  and  makes  a slave  of  man. 

44  Do  they  themselves,  who  undertake  for  hire 
44  The  teacher’s  office,  and  dispense  at  large 
44  Their  weekly  dole  of  edifying  strains, 

“ Attend  to  their  own  music?  have  they  faith 
44  In  what,  with  such  solemnity  of  tone 
44  And  gesture,  they  propound  to  our  belief? 

44  Nay— conduct  hath  the  loudest  tongue.  The  voice 
44  Is  but  an  instrument,  on  which  the  priest 
44  May  play  what  tune  he  pleases.  In  the  deed, 
“The  unequivocal,  authentic  deed, 

44 We  find  sound  argument,  we  read  the  heart.” 

Such  reasonings  (if  that  name  must  needs  belong 
To  excuses  in  which  reason  has  no  part) 

Serve  to  compose  a spirit  well  inclined 
To  live  on  terms  of  amity  with  vice, 

And  sin  without  disturbance.  Often  urged, 

(As  often,  as  libidinous  discourse 
Exhausted,  he  resorts  to  solemn  theme^ 

Of  theological  and  grave  import,) 

They  gain  at  last  his  unreserved  assent; 

Till,  harden’d  his  heart’s  temper  in  the  forge 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


139 


Of  lust,  and  on  the  anvil  of  despair, 

He  slights  the  strokes  of  conscience.  Nothing  moves, 
Or  nothing  much,  his  constancy  in  ill ; 

Vain  tampering  has  but  foster’d  his  disease; 

’Tis  desperate;  and  he  sleeps  the  sleep  of  death. 

Haste  now,  philosopher,  and  set  him  free. 

Charm  the  deaf  serpent  wisely.  Make  him  hear 

Of  rectitude  and  fitness,  moral  truth 

How  lovely,  and  the  moral  sense  how  sure, 

Consulted  and  obey’d,  to  guide  his  steps 
Directly  to  the  first  and  only  fair. 

Spare  not  in  such  a cause.  Spend  all  the  powers 
Of  rant  and  rhapsody  in  virtue’s  praise : 

Be  most  sublimely  good,  verbosely  grand, 

And  with  poetic  trappings  grace  thy  prose 
Till  it  outmantle  all  the  pride  of  verse. — 

Ah,  tinkling  cymbal,  and  high-sounding  brass, 

Smitten  in  vain ! such  music  cannot  charm 

The  eclipse  that  intercepts  Truth’s  heavenly  beam, 

And  chills  and  darkens  a wide-wandering  soul. 

The  still  small  voice  is  wanted.  He  must  speak, 
Whose  word  leaps  forth  at  once  to  its  effect ; 

Who  calls  for  things  that  are  not,  and  they  come. 

Grace  makes  the  slave  a freeman.  ’Tis  a change 
That  turns  to  ridicule  the  turgid  speech 
And  stately  tone  of  moralists,  who  boast 
As  if,  like  him  of  fabulous  renown, 

They  had,  indeed,  ability  to  smooth 
The  shag  of  savage  nature,  and  were  each 
An  Orpheus,  and  omnipotent  in  song. 

But  transformation  of  apostate  man 
From  fool  to  wise,  from  earthly  to  divine, 

Is  work  for  Him  that  made  him.  He  alone, 


140 


THE  TASK. 


And  He,  by  means  in  philosophic  eyes 
Trivial,  and  worthy  of  disdain,  achieves 
The  wonder;  humanizing  what  is  brute 
In  the  lost  kind,  extracting  from  the  lips 
Of  asps  their  venom,  overpowering  strength 
By  weakness,  and  hostility  by  love. 

Patriots  have  toil’d,  and  in  their  country’s  cause 
Bled  nobly  ; and  their  deeds,  as  they  deserve, 

Receive  proud  recompence.  We  give  in  charge 
Their  names  to  the  sweet  lyre.  The  historic  Muse, 
Proud  of  the  treasure,  marches  with  it  down 
To  latest  times;  and  Sculpture,  in  her  turn, 

Gives  bond  in  stone  and  ever-during  brass 
To  guard  them,  and  to  immortalize  her  trust : 

But  fairer  wreaths  are  due,  though  never  paid, 

To  those  who,  posted  at  the  shrine  of  Truth, 

Have  fall’n  in  her  defence.  A patriot’s  blood, 

Well  spent  in  such  a strife,  may  earn,  indeed, 

And  for  a time  ensure,  to  his  loved  land 
The  sweets  of  liberty  and  equal  laws; 

But  martyrs  struggle  for  a brighter  prize, 

And  win  it  with  more  pain.  Their  blood  is  shed 
In  confirmation  of  the  noblest  claim, 

Our  claim  to  feed  upon  immortal  truth, 

To  walk  with  God,  to  be  divinely  free, 

To  soar,  and  to  anticipate  the  skies. 

Yet  few  remember  them.  They  lived  unknown, 

Till  persecution  dragg’d  them  into  fame, 

And  chased  them  up  to  Heaven.  Their  ashes  flew— 
No  marble  tells  us  whither.  With  their  names 
No  Bard  embalms  and  sanctifies  his  song: 

And  History,  so  warm  on  meaner  themes, 

Is  cold  on  this.  She  execrates,  indeed, 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


141 


The  tyranny  that  doom’d  them  to  the  fire, 

But  gives  the  glorious  sufferers  little  praise.* 

He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free, 
And  all  are  slaves  beside.  There’s  not  a chain 
That  hellish  foes,  confederate  for  his  harm, 

Can  wind  around  him,  but  he  casts  it  off 
With  as  much  ease  as  Samson  his  green  withes. 
He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 
Of  nature,  and  though  poor,  perhaps,  compared 
With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight, 
Calls  the  delightful  scenery  all  his  own. 

His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  valleys  his, 

And  the  resplendent  rivers.  His  to  enjoy, 

With  a propriety  that  none  can  feel 
But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspired, 

Can  lift  to  Heaven  an  unpresumptuous  eye, 

And  smiling  say — 44  My  Father  made  them  all!” 
Are  they  not  his  by  a peculiar  right, 

And  by  an  emphasis  of  interest  his, 

Whose  eye  they  fill  with  tears  of  holy  joy, 

Whose  heart  with  praise,  and  whose  exalted  mind 
With  worthy  thoughts  of  that  unwearied  love 
That  plann’d,  and  built,  and  still  upholds,  a world 
So  clothed  with  beauty  for  rebellious  man? 

Yes — ye  may  fill  your  garners,  ye  that  reap 
The  loaded  soil,  and  ye  may  waste  much  good 
In  senseless  riot ; but  ye  will  not  find 
In  feast,  or  in  the  chase,  in  song  or  dance, 

A liberty  like  his,  who,  unimpeach’d 
Of  usurpation,  and  to  no  man’s  wrong, 
Appropriates  Nature  as  his  Father’s  work, 

And  has  a richer  use  of  yours  than  you. 

He  is,  indeed,  a freeman : free  by  birth 
* See  Hume. 


142 


THE  TASK. 


Of  no  mean  city,  plann’d  or  ere  the  hills 
Were  built,  the  fountains  open’d,  or  the  sea 
With  all  his  roaring  multitude  of  waves. 

His  freedom  is  the  same  in  every  state ; 

And  no  condition  of  this  changeful  life, 

So  manifold  in  cares,  whose  every  day 
Brings  its  own  evil  with  it,  makes  it  less : 

For  he  has  wings  that  neither  sickness,  pain, 

Nor  penury  can  cripple  or  confine. 

No  nook  so  narrow  but  he  spreads  them  there 
With  ease,  and  is  at  large.  The  oppressor  holds 
His  body  bound,  but  knows  not  what  a range 
His  spirit  takes,  unconscious  of  a chain  ; 

And  that  to  bind  him  is  a vain  attempt, 

Whom  God  delights  in,  and  in  whom  He  dwells. 

Acquaint  thyself  with  God,  if  thou  wouldst  taste 
His  works.  Admitted  once  to  His  embrace, 

Thou  shalt  perceive  that  thou  wast  blind  before : 
Thine  eye  shall  be  instructed ; and  thine  heart, 

Made  pure,  shall  relish,  with  divine  delight, 

Till  then  unfelt,  what  hands  divine  have  wrought. 
Brutes  graze  the  mountain-top,  with  faces  prone 
And  eyes  intent  upon  the  scanty  herb 
It  yields  them ; or,  recumbent  on  its  brow, 

Ruminate  heedless  of  the  scene  outspread 
Beneath,  beyond,  and  stretching  far  away 
From  inland  regions  to  the  distant  main. 

Man  views  it,  and  admires  ; but  rests  content 
With  what  he  views.  The  landscape  has  his  praise, 
But  not  its  Author.  Unconcern’d  who  form’d 
The  Paradise  he  sees,  he  finds  it  such, 

And,  such  well  pleased  to  find  it,  asks  no  more. 

Not  so  the  mind  that  has  been  touch’d  from  Heaven, 
And  in  the  school  of  sacred  wisdom  taught 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


143 


To  read  his  wonders  in  whose  thought  the  world, 
Fair  as  it  is,  existed  ere  it  was. 

Not  for  its  own  sake  merely,  but  for  His 
Much  more  who  fashion’d  it,  he  gives  it  praise ; 
Praise  that,  from  earth  resulting,  as  it  ought, 

To  earth’s  acknowledged  Sovereign,  finds  at  once 
Its  only  just  proprietor  in  Him. 

The  soul  that  sees  Him,  or  receives  sublimed 
New  faculties,  or  learns  at  least  to  employ 
More  worthily  the  powers  she  own’d  before, 
Discerns  in  all  things  what,  with  stupid  gaze 
Of  ignorance,  till  then  she  overlook’d, 

A ray  of  heavenly  light,  gilding  all  forms 
Terrestrial,  in  the  vast  and  the  minute, 

The  unambiguous  footsteps  of  the  God 
Who  gives  its  lustre  to  an  insect’s  wing, 

And  wheels  His  throne  upon  the  rolling  worlds. 
Much  conversant  with  Heaven,  she  often  holds 
With  those  fair  ministers  of  light  to  man, 

That  nightly  fill  the  skies  with  silent  pomp, 

Sweet  conference  ; inquires  what  strains  were  they 
With  which  Heaven  rang,  when  every  star,  in  haste 
To  gratulate  the  new-created  earth, 

Sent  forth  a voice,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 
Shouted  for  joy. — “ Tell  me,  ye  shining  hosts, 

“ That  navigate  a sea  that  knows  no  storms, 

“ Beneath  a vault  unsullied  with  a cloud, 

“ If  from  your  elevation,  whence  ye  view 
“ Distinctly  scenes  invisible  to  man, 

“ And  systems  of  whose  birth  no  tidings  yet 
“ Have  reach’d  this  nether  world,  ye  spy  a race 
“ Favour’d  as  ours ; transgressors  from  the  womb, 

“ And  hasting  to  a grave,  yet  doom’d  to  rise, 

“ And  to  possess  a brighter  Heaven  than  yours  ? 


144 


THE  TASK. 


“ As  one  who,  long  detain’d  on  foreign  shores, 

“ Pants  to  return,  and  when  he  sees  afar 
“ His  country’s  weather-bleach’ d and  batter’d  rocks 
« From  the  green  wave  emerging,  darts  an  eye 
“ Radiant  with  joy  towards  the  happy  land; 

“ So  I,  with  animated  hopes,  behold, 

“ And  many  an  aching  wish,  your  beamy  fires, 

“ That  show  like  beacons  in  the  blue  abyss, 

“ Ordain’d  to  guide  the  embodied  spirit  home 
“ From  toilsome  life  to  never-ending  rest. 

“ Love  kindles  as  I gaze.  I feel  desires 
“ That  give  assurance  of  their  own  success, 

“And  that,  infused  from  Heaven,  must  thither  tend.” 
So  reads  he  Nature  whom  the  lamp  of  truth 
Illuminates.  Thy  lamp,  mysterious  Word  ! 

Which  whoso  sees  no  longer  wanders  lost, 

With  intellects  bemazed  in  endless  doubt, 

But  runs  the  road  of  wisdom.  Thou  hast  built, 

With  means  that  were  not  till  by  Thee  employ’d, 
Worlds  that  had  never  been,  hadst  Thou  in  strength 
Been  less,  or  less  benevolent  than  strong. 

They  are  Thy  witnesses,  who  speak  Thy  power 
And  goodness  infinite,  but  speak  in  ears 
That  hear  not,  or  receive  not  their  report. 

In  vain  Thy  creatures  testify  of  Thee, 

Till  Thou  proclaim  Thyself.  Theirs  is,  indeed, 

A teaching  voice ; but  ’tis  the  praise  of  Thine, 

That  whom  it  teaches  it  makes  prompt  to  learn, 

And  with  the  boon  gives  talents  for  its  use. 

Till  Thou  art  heard,  imaginations  vain 
Possess  the  heart,  and  fables  false  as  hell, 

Yet  deem’d  oracular,  lure  down  to  death 
The  uninform’d  and  heedless  souls  of  men. 

We  give  to  Chance,  blind  Chance,  ourselves  as  blind, 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


145 


The  glory  of  Thy  work ; which  yet  appears 
Perfect  and  unimpeachable  of  blame, 

Challenging  human  scrutiny,  and  proved 
Then  skilful  most  when  most  severely  judged. 

But  Chance  is  not;  or  is  not  where  Thou  reign’st: 
Thy  Providence  forbids  that  fickle  power 
(If  power  she  be,  that  works  but  to  confound) 

To  mix  her  wild  vagaries  with  Thy  laws. 

Yet  thus  we  dote,  refusing,  while  we  can, 

Instruction,  and  inventing  to  ourselves 

Gods  such  as  guilt  makes  welcome ; gods  that  sleep, 

Or  disregard  our  follies,  or  that  sit 

Amused  spectators  of  this  bustling  stage. 

Thee  we  reject,  unable  to  abide 
Thy  purity,  till  pure  as  Thou  art  pure, 

Made  such  by  Thee,  we  love  Thee  for  that  cause 
For  which  we  shunn’d  and  hated  Thee  before. 

Then  we  are  free.  Then  liberty,  like  day, 

Breaks  on  the  soul,  and  by  a flash  from  Heaven 
Fires  all  the  faculties  with  glorious  joy. 

A voice  is  heard  that  mortal  ears  hear  not 

Till  Thou  hast  touch’d  them;  ’tis  the  voice  of  song, 

A loud  Hosanna  sent  from  all  Thy  works ; 

Which  he  that  hears  it  with  a shout  repeats, 

And  adds  his  rapture  to  the  general  praise. 

In  that  bless’d  moment  Nature,  throwing  wide 
Her  veil  opaque,  discloses  with  a smile 
The  Author  of  her  beauties,  who,  retired 
Behind  His  own  creation,  works  unseen 
By  the  impure,  and  hears  His  power  denied. 

Thou  art  the  source  and  centre  of  all  minds, 

Their  only  point  of  rest,  eternal  Word ! 

From  Thee  departing,  they  are  lost,  and  rove 
At  random,  without  honour,  hope,  or  peace. 

13 


146  THE  TASK. 

From  Thee  is  all  that  soothes  the  life  of  man, 

His  high  endeavour,  and  his  glad  success, 

His  strength  to  suffer,  and  his  will  to  serve. 

But  O,  Thou  bounteous  Giver  of  all  good, 

Thou  art  of  all  Thy  gifts  Thyself  the  crown ! 

Give  what  Thou  canst ; without  Thee  we  are  poor 
And  with  Thee  rich,  take  what  Thou  wilt  away. 


THE  TASK 


BOOK  VI.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


ARGUMENT. 

Bells  at  a distance : their  effect.  A fine  noon  in  winter.  A shel- 
tered walk.  Meditation  better  than  books.  Our  familiarity  with  the 
course  of  Nature  makes  it  appear  less  wonderful  than  it  is.  The 
transformation  that  spring  effects  in  a shrubbery  described.  A mis- 
take concerning  the  course  of  Nature  corrected.  God  maintains  it 
by  an  unremitted  act.  The  amusements  fashionable  at  this  hour  of 
the  day  reproved.  Animals  happy,  a delightful  sight.  Origin  of 
cruelty  to  animals.  That  it  is  a great  crime,  proved  from  Scripture. 
That  proof  illustrated  by  a tale.  A line  drawn  between  the  lawful 
and  unlawful  destruction  of  them.  Their  good  and  useful  properties 
insisted  on.  Apology  for  the  encomiums  bestowed  by  the  Author  on 
animals.  Instances  of  man’s  extravagant  praise  of  man.  The  groans 
of  the  creation  shall  have  an  end.  A view  taken  of  the  restoration 
of  all  things.  An  invocation  and  an  invitation  of  Him  who  shall 
bring  it  to  pass.  The  retired  man  vindicated  from  the  charge  of 
uselessness.  Conclusion. 


148 


THE  TASK. 


BOOK  VI. THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 

There  is,  in  souls,  a sympathy  with  sounds ; 

And  as  the  mind  is  pitch’d,  the  ear  is  pleased 
With  melting  airs  or  martial,  brisk  or  grave; 

Some  chord,  in  unison  with  what  we  hear, 

Is  touch’d  within  us,  and  the  heart  replies. 

How  soft  the  music  of  those  village  bells, 

Falling  at  intervals  upon  the  ear 
In  cadence  sweet,  now  dying  all  away, 

Now  pealing  loud  again,  and  louder  still, 

Clear  and  sonorous,  as  the  gale  comes  on ! 

With  easy  force  it  opens  all  the  cells 
Where  Memory  slept.  Wherever  I have  heard 
A kindred  melody,  the  scene  recurs, 

And  with  it  all  its  pleasures  and  its  pains. 

Such  comprehensive  views  the  spirit  takes, 

That  in  a few  short  moments  I retrace 
(As  in  a map  the  voyager  his  course) 

The  windings  of  my  way  through  many  years. 
Short  as  in  retrospect  the  journey  seems, 

It  seem’d  not  always  short ; the  rugged  path, 

And  prospect  oft  so  dreary  and  forlorn, 

Moved  many  a sigh  at  its  disheartening  length. 

Yet  feeling  present  evils,  while  the  past 
13* 


149 


150 


THE  TASK. 


Faintly  impress  the  mind,  or  not  at  all, 

How  readily  we  wish  time  spent  revoked, 

That  we  might  try  the  ground  again  where  once 
(Through  inexperience,  as  we  now  perceive) 

We  miss’d  that  happiness  we  might  have  found  l 
Some  friend  is  gone,  perhaps  his  son’s  best  friend, 

A father,  whose  authority  in  show 

When  most  severe,  and  mustering  all  its  force, 

Was  but  the  graver  countenance  of  love  ; 

Whose  favour,  like  the  clouds  of  spring,  might  lower, 
And  utter  now  and  then  an  awful  voice, 

But  had  a blessing  in  its  darkest  frown, 

Threatening  at  once  and  nourishing  the  plant. 

We  loved,  but  not  enough,  the  gentle  hand 
That  rear’d  us.  At  a thoughtless  age,  allured 
By  every  gilded  folly,  we  renounced 
His  sheltering  side,  and  wilfully  forewent 
That  converse  which  we  now,  in  vain,  regret. 

How  gladly  would  the  man  recall  to  life 
The  boy’s  neglected  sire  ! a mother  too, 

That  softer  friend,  perhaps,  more  gladly  still, 

Might  he  demand  them  at  the  gates  of  death. 

Sorrow  has,  since  they  went,  subdued  and  tamed 
The  playful  humour;  he  could  now  endure, 

(Himself  grown  sober  in  the  vale  of  tears) 

And  feel  a parent’s  presence  no  restraint. 

But  not  to  understand  a treasure’s  worth 
Till  time  has  stolen  away  the  slighted  good, 

Is  cause  of  half  the  poverty  we  feel, 

And  makes  the  world  the  wilderness  it  is. 

The  few  that  pray  at  all,  pray  oft  amiss, 

And,  seeking  grace  to  improve  the  prize  they  hold, 
Would  urge  a wiser  suit  than  asking  more. 

The  night  was  winter,  in  his  roughest  mood ; 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

mmwr  n?  num 


“Meditation  heTe 

May  think  down  houis  to  moments." 


•'  . /.*<  ii 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


151 


The  morning  sharp  and  clear.  But  now  at  noon, 
Upon  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills, 

And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast, 
The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage, 

And  has  the  warmth  of  May.  The  vault  is  blue 
Without  a cloud,  and  white  without  a speck 
The  dazzling  splendour  of  the  scene  below. 

Again  the  harmony  comes  o’er  the  vale  ; 

And  through  the  trees  I view  the  embattled  tower 
Whence  all  the  music.  I again  perceive 
The  soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains, 

And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I tread 

The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms, 

Whose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade. 

The  roof,  though  moveable  through  all  its  length 
As  the  wind  sways  it,  has  yet  well  sufficed, 

And,  intercepting  in  their  silent  fall 

The  frequent  flakes,  has  kept  a path  for  me. 

No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought. 

The  redbreast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 
With  slender  notes,  and  more  than  half  suppress’d : 
Pleased  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  light 
From  spray  to  spray,  where’er  he  rests  he  shakes 
From  many  a twig  the  pendent  drops  of  ice 
That  tinkle  in  the  wither’d  leaves  below. 

Stillness,  accompanied  with  sounds  so  soft, 

Charms  more  than  silence.  Meditation  here 
May  think  down  hours  to  moments.  Here  the  heart 
May  give  a useful  lesson  to  the  head, 

And  Learning  wiser  grow  without  his  books. 
Knowledge  and  Wisdom,  far  from  being  one, 

Have  oft-times  no  connexion.  Knowledge  dwells 
In  heads  replete  with  thoughts  of  other  men ; 
Wisdom  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own. 


152 


THE  TASK. 


Knowledge  a rude  unprofitable  mass, 

The  mere  materials  with  which  Wisdom  builds, 

Till  smooth’d,  and  squared,  and  fitted  to  its  place, 
Does  but  encumber  whom  it  seems  to  enrich. 
Knowledge  is  proud  that  he  has  learn’d  so  much; 
Wisdom  is  humble  that  he  knows  no  more. 

Books  are  not  seldom  talismans  and  spells, 

By  which  the  magic  art  of  shrewder  wits 
Holds  an  unthinking  multitude  enthrall’d. 

Some  to  the  fascination  of  a name 
Surrender  judgment,  hoodwink’d.  Some  the  style 
Infatuates,  and  through  labyrinths  and  wilds 
Of  error  leads  them,  by  a tune  entranced: 

While  sloth  seduces  more,  too  weak  to  bear 
The  insupportable  fatigue  of  thought ; 

And  swallowing,  therefore,  without  pause  or  choice, 
The  total  grist  unsifted,  husks  and  all. 

But  trees  and  rivulets,  whose  rapid  course 
Defies  the  check  of  winter,  haunts  of  deer, 

And  sheep-walks  populous  with  bleating  lambs, 

And  lanes  in  which  the  primrose,  ere  her  time, 

Peeps  through  the  moss  that  clothes  the  hawthorn  root, 
Deceive  no  student.  Wisdom  there,  and  Truth, 

Not  shy,  as  in  the  world,  and  to  be  won 

By  slow  solicitation,  seize  at  once 

The  roving  thought,  and  fix  it  on  themselves. 

What  prodigies  can  Power  divine  perform, 

More  grand  than  it  produces  year  by  year, 

And  all  in  sight  of  inattentive  man  ? 

Familiar  with  the  effect,  we  slight  the  cause, 

And,  in  the  constancy  of  Nature’s  course, 

The  regular  return  of  genial  months, 

And  renovation  of  a faded  world, 

See  nought  to  wonder  at.  Should  God  again, 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


153 


As  once  in  Gibeon,  interrupt  the  race 
Of  the  undeviating  and  punctual  Sun, 

How  would  the  world  admire ! But  speaks  it  less 

An  agency  divine,  to  make  him  know 

His  moment  when  to  sink  and  when  to  rise, 

Age  after  age,  than  to  arrest  his  course  ? 

All  we  behold  is  miracle ; but,  seen 
So  duly,  all  is  miracle  in  vain. 

Where  now  the  vital  energy  that  moved, 

While  summer  was,  the  pure  and  subtle  lymph 
Through  the  imperceptible  meandering  veins 
Of  leaf  and  flower?  It  sleeps ; and  the  icy  touch 
Of  unprolific  winter  has  impress’d 
A cold  stagnation  on  the  intestine  tide. 

But  let  the  months  go  round,  a few  short  months, 

And  all  shall  be  restored.  These  naked  shoots, 
Barren  as  lances,  among  which  the  wind 
Makes  wintry  music,  sighing  as  it  goes, 

Shall  put  their  graceful  foliage  on  again, 

And,  more  aspiring,  and  with  ampler  spread^ 

Shall  boast  new  charms,  and  more  than  they  have  lost, 
Then  each,  in  its  peculiar  honours  clad, 

Shall  publish,  even  to  the  distant  eye, 

Its  family  and  tribe.  Laburnum,  rich 
In  streaming  gold ; syringa,  ivory  pure ; 

The  scentless  and  the  scented  rose ; this  red, 

And  of  an  humbler  growth,  the  other*  tall, 

And  throwing  up  into  the  darkest  gloom 
Of  neighbouring  cypress,  or  more  sable  yew, 

Her  silver  globes,  light  as  the  foamy  surf 
That  the  wind  severs  from  the  broken  wave ; 

The  lilac,  various  in  array,  now  white, 


* The  Guelder-rose. 


154 


THE  TASK. 


Now  sanguine,  and  her  beauteous  head  now  set 
With  purple  spikes  pyramidal,  as  if, 

Studious  of  ornament,  yet  unresolved 
Which  hue  she  most  approved,  she  chose  them  all ; 
Copious  of  flowers,  the  woodbine,  pale  and  wan, 
But  well  compensating  her  sickly  looks 
With  never-cloying  odours,  early  and  late ; 
Hypericum  all  bloom,  so  thick  a swarm 
Of  flowers,  like  flies  clothing  her  slender  rods, 
That  scarce  a leaf  appears.  Mezerion  too, 

Though  leafless,  well  attired,  and  thick  beset 
With  blushing  wreaths,  investing  every  spray ; 
Althaea  with  the  purple  eye  ; the  broom, 

Yellow  and  bright,  as  bullion  unalloy’d, 

Her  blossoms ; and,  luxuriant  above  all, 

The  jasmine,  throwing  wide  her  elegant  sweets, 
The  deep  dark  green  of  whose  unvarnish’d  leaf 
Makes  more  conspicuous,  and  illumines  more 
The  bright  profusion  of  her  scatter’d  stars. 

These  have  been,  and  these  shall  be  in  their  day ; 
And  all  this  uniform,  uncolour’d  scene 
Shall  be  dismantled  of  its  fleecy  load, 

And  flush  into  variety  again. 

From  dearth  to  plenty,  and  from  death  to  life, 

Is  Nature’s  progress,  when  she  lectures  man 
In  heavenly  truth ; evincing,  as  she  makes 
The  grand  transition,  that  there  lives  and  works 
A soul  in  all  things,  and  that  soul  is  God. 

The  beauties  of  the  wilderness  are  His 

That  makes  so  gay  the  solitary  place 

Where  no  eye  sees  them.  And  the  fairer  forms, 

That  cultivation  glories  in,  are  His. 

He  sets  the  bright  procession  on  its  way, 

And  marshals  all  the  order  of  the  year ; 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


155 


He  marks  the  bounds  which  winter  may  not  pass, 

And  blunts  his  pointed  fury ; in  its  case, 

Russet  and  rude,  folds  up  the  tender  germ, 

Uninjured,  with  inimitable  art; 

And,  ere  one  flowery  season  fades  and  dies, 

Designs  the  blooming  wonders  of  the  next. 

Some  say  that  in  the  origin  of  things, 

When  all  creation  started  into  birth, 

The  infant  elements  received  a law 

From  which  they  swerve  not  since.  That  under  force 

Of  that  controlling  ordinance  they  move, 

And  need  not  His  immediate  hand  who  first 
Prescribed  their  course,  to  regulate  it  now. 

Thus  dream  they,  and  contrive  to  save  a God 
The  encumbrance  of  His  own  concerns,  and  spare 
The  great  Artificer  of  all  that  moves 
The  stress  of  a continual  act,  the  pain 
Of  unremitted  vigilance  and  care, 

As  too  laborious  and  severe  a task. 

So  man,  the  moth,  is  not  afraid,  it  seems, 

To  span  Omnipotence,  and  measure  might 
That  knows  no  measure,  by  the  scanty  rule 
And  standard  of  his  own,  that  is  to-day, 

And  is  not  ere  to-morrow’s  Sun  go  down. 

But  how  should  matter  occupy  a charge, 

Dull  as  it  is,  and  satisfy  a law 
So  vast  in  its  demands,  unless  impell’d 
To  ceaseless  service  by  a ceaseless  force, 

And  under  pressure  of  some  conscious  cause  ? 

The  Lord  of  all,  Himself  through  all  diffused, 
Sustains,  and  is  the  life  of  all  that  lives. 

Nature  is  but  a name  for  an  effect, 

Whose  cause  is  God.  He  feeds  the  secret  fire 
By  which  the  mighty  process  is  maintain’d, 


156 


THE  TASK. 


Who  sleeps  not — is  not  weary ; in  whose  sight 
Slow  circling  ages  are  as  transient  days ; 

Whose  work  is  without  labour ; whose  designs 
No  flaw  deforms,  no  difficulty  thwarts ; 

And  whose  beneficence  no  charge  exhausts. 

Him  blind  antiquity  profaned,  not  served, 

With  self-taught  rights,  and  under  various  names, 
Female  and  male,  Pomona,  Pales,  Pan, 

And  Flora,  and  Vertumnus;  peopling  earth 
With  tutelary  goddesses  and  gods 
That  were  not;  and  commending  as  they  would 
To  each  some  province,  garden,  field,  or  grove. 

But  all  are  under  one.  One  spirit — His 

Who  bore  the  platted  thorns  with  bleeding  brows — 

Rules  universal  Nature.  Not  a flower 

But  shows  some  touch,  in  freckle,  streak,  or  stain, 

Of  His  unrivall’d  pencil.  He  inspires 

Their  balmy  odours,  and  imparts  their  hues, 

And  bathes  their  eyes  with  nectar,  and  includes, 

In  grains  as  countless  as  the  seaside  sands, 

The  forms  with  which  He  sprinkles  all  the  earth. 
Happy  who  walks  with  Him ! whom  what  he  finds 
Of  flavour  or  of  scent  in  fruit  or  flower, 

Or  what  he  views  of  beautiful  or  grand 
In  Nature,  from  the  broad  majestic  Oak 
To  the  green  blade,  that  twinkles  in  the  Sun, 
Prompts  with  remembrance  of  a present  God. 

His  presence,  who  made  all  so  fair,  perceived, 
Makes  all  still  fairer.  As  with  Him  no  scene 
Is  dreary,  so  with  Him  all  seasons  please. 

Though  winter  had  been  none  had  man  been  true, 
And  earth  be  punish’d  for  its  tenant’s  sake, 

Yet  not  in  vengeance;  as  this  smiling  sky, 

So  soon  succeeding  such  an  angry  night, 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


157 


And  these  dissolving  snows,  and  this  clear  stream, 
Recovering  fast  its  liquid  music,  prove. 

Who,  then,  that  has  a mind  well  strung,  and  tuned 
To  contemplation,  and  within  his  reach 
A scene  so  friendly  to  his  favourite  task, 

Would  waste  attention  at  the  checker’d  board, 

His  host  of  wooden  warriors  to  and  fro 
Marching  and  countermarching,  with  an  eye 
As  fix’d  as  marble,  with  a forehead  ridged 
And  furrow’d  into  storms,  and  with  a hand 
Trembling,  as  if  eternity  were  hung 
In  balance  on  his  conduct  of  a pin  ? 

Nor  envies  he  aught  more  their  idle  sport 
Who  pant  with  application  misapplied 
To  trivial  toys,  and,  pushing  ivory  balls 
Across  a velvet  level,  feel  a joy 
Akin  to  rapture,  when  the  bauble  finds 
Its  destined  goal,  of  difficult  access. 

Nor  deems  he  wiser  him  who  gives  his  noon 
To  Miss,  the  Mercer’s  plague,  from  shop  to  shop 
Wandering,  and  littering  with  unfolded  silks 
The  polish’d  counter,  and  approving  none ; 

Or  promising,  with  smiles,  to  call  again. 

Nor  him  who,  by  his  vanity  seduced, 

And  soothed  into  a dream  that  he  discerns 
The  difference  of  a Guido  from  a daub, 

Frequents  the  crowded  auction : station’d  there 
As  duly  as  the  Langford  of  the  show, 

With  glass  at  eye,  and  catalogue  in  hand, 

And  tongue  accomplish’d  in  the  fulsome  cant 
And  pedantry  that  coxcombs  learn  with  ease  ; 

Oft  as  the  price-deciding  hammer  falls 
He  notes  it  in  his  book,  then  raps  his  box, 

14 


158 


THE  TASK. 


Swears  ’tis  a bargain,  rails  at  his  hard  fate, 

That  he  has  let  it  pass — but  never  bids. 

Here  unmolested,  through  whatever  sign 
The  Sun  proceeds,  I wander.  Neither  mist, 

Nor  freezing  sky,  nor  sultry,  checking  me, 

Nor  stranger  intermeddling  with  my  joy. 

E’en  in  the  spring  and  playtime  of  the  year, 

That  calls  the  unwonted  villager  abroad 
With  all  her  little  ones,  a sportive  train,  * 

To  gather  Kingcups  in  the  yellow  mead, 

And  prink  their  hair  with  Daisies,  or  to  pick 
A cheap  but  wholesome  salad  from  the  brook, 

These  shades  are  all  my  own.  The  timorous  Hare, 
Grown  so  familiar  with  her  frequent  guest, 

Scarce  shuns  me;  and  the  Stockdove,  unalarm’d, 

Sits  cooing  in  the  pine-tree,  nor  suspends 
His  long  love-ditty  for  my  near  approach. 

Drawn  from  his  refuge  in  some  lonely  elm, 

That  age  or  injury  has  hollow’d  deep, 

Where,  on  his  bed  of  wool  and  matted  leaves, 

He  has  outslept  the  winter,  ventures  forth, 

To  frisk  awhile,  and  bask  in  the  warm  Sun, 

The  Squirrel,  flippant,  pert,  and  full  of  play : 

He  sees  me,  and  at  once,  swift  as  a bird, 

Ascends  the  neighbouringbeech;  there  whisks  his  brush, 
And  perks  his  ears,  and  stamps,  and  cries  aloud, 

With  all  the  prettiness  of  feign’d  alarm, 

And  anger  insignificantly  fierce. 

The  heart  is  hard  in  nature,  and  unfit 
For  human  fellowship,  as  being  void 
Of  sympathy,  and  therefore  dead  alike 
To  love  and  friendship  both,  that  is  not  pleased 
With  sight  of  animals  enjoying  life, 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


159 


Nor  feels  their  happiness  augment  his  own. 

The  bounding  Fawn,  that  darts  across  the  glade 
When  none  pursues,  through  mere  delight  of  heart, 
And  spirits  buoyant  with  excess  of  glee  ; 

The  Horse  as  wanton,  and  almost  as  fleet, 

That  skims  the  spacious  meadow  at  full  speed, 

Then  stops,  and  snorts,  and,  throwing  high  his  heels, 
Starts  to  the  voluntary  race  again ; 

The  very  Kine,  that  gambol  at  high  noon, 

The  total  herd  receiving  first  from  one 
That  leads  the  dance,  a summons  to  be  gay, 

Though  wild  their  strange  vagaries,  and  uncouth  * 
Their  efforts,  yet  resolved  with  one  consent 
To  give  such  act  and  utterance  as  they  may 
To  ecstasy,  too  big  to  be  suppress’d — 

These,  and  a thousand  images  of  bliss 
With  which  kind  Nature  graces  every  scene 
Where  cruel  man  defeats  not  her  design, 

Impart  to  the  benevolent,  who  wish 
All  that  are  capable  of  pleasure  pleased, 

A far  superior  happiness  to  theirs, 

The  comfort  of  a reasonable  joy. 

Man  scarce  had  risen,  obedient  to  His  call 
Who  form’d  him  from  the  dust,  his  future  grave, 
When  he  was  crown’d  as  never  King  was  since. 

God  set  the  diadem  upon  his  head, 

And  angel  choirs  attended.  Wondering  stood 
The  new-made  monarch,  while  before  him  pass’d, 

All  happy,  and  all  perfect  in  their  kind, 

The  creatures  summon’d  from  their  various  haunts 
To  see  their  sovereign,  and  confess  his  sway. 

Vast  was  his  empire,  absolute  his  power, 

Or  bounded  only  by  a law  whose  force 
’Twas  his  sublimest  privilege  to  feel 


160 


THE  TASK. 


And  own— the  law  of  universal  love. 

He  ruled  with  meekness,  they  obey’d  with  joy ; 

No  cruel  purpose  lurk’d  within  his  heart, 

And  no  distrust  of  his  intent  in  theirs. 

So  Eden  was  a scene  of  harmless  sport, 

Where  kindness,  on  his  part  who  ruled  the  whole, 
Begat  a tranquil  confidence  in  all, 

And  fear  as  yet  was  not,  nor  cause  for  fear. 

But  sin  marr’d  all ; and  the  revolt  of  man, 

That  source  of  evils  not  exhausted  yet, 

Was  punish’d  with  revolt  of  his  from  him. 

Garden  of  God,  how  terrible  the  change 
Thy  groves  and  lawns  then  witness’d ! Every  heart, 
Each  animal,  of  every  name,  conceived 
A jealousy  and  an  instinctive  fear, 

And,  conscious  of  some  danger,  either  fled 
Precipitate  the  loathed  abode  of  man, 

Or  growl’d  defiance  in  such  angry  sort, 

As  taught  him  too  to  tremble  in  his  turn. 

Thus  harmony  and  family  accord 
Were  driven  from  Paradise  ; and  in  that  hour 
The  seeds  of  cruelty,  that  since  have  swell’d 
To  such  gigantic  and  enormous  growth, 

Were  sown  in  human  nature’s  fruitful  soil. 

Hence  date  the  persecution  and  the  pain 
That  man  inflicts  on  all  inferior  kinds, 

Regardless  of  their  plaints.  To  make  him  sport, 

To  gratify  the  frenzy  of  his  wrath, 

Or  his  base  gluttony,  are  causes  good 
And  just,  in  his  account,  why  bird  and  beast 
Should  suffer  torture,  and  the  streams  be  dyed 
With  blood  of  their  inhabitants  impaled. 

Earth  groans  beneath  the  burden  of  a war 
Waged  with  defenceless  innocence,  while  he, 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


Not  satisfied  to  prey  on  all  around, 

Adds  tenfold  bitterness  to  death  by  pangs 
Needless,  and  first  torments  ere  he  devours. 
Now  happiest  they  that  occupy  the  scenes 
The  most  remote  from  his  abhorr’d  resort, 
Whom  once,  as  delegate  of  God  on  earth, 
They  fear’d,  and  as  His  perfect  image  loved. 
The  wilderness  is  theirs,  with  all  its  caves, 

Its  hollow  glens,  its  thickets,  and  its  plains, 
Unvisited  by  man.  There  they  are  free, 

And  howl  and  roar  as  likes  them,  uncontroll’d 
Nor  ask  his  leave  to  slumber  or  to  play. 

Woe  to  the  tyrant,  if  he  dare  intrude 
Within  the  confines  of  their  wild  domain : 

The  Lion  tells  him — I am  monarch  here ; — 
And,  if  he  spare  him,  spares  him  on  the  terms 
Of  royal  mercy,  and  through  generous  scorn 
To  rend  a victim  trembling  at  his  foot. 

In  measure,  as  by  force  of  instinct  drawn, 

Or  by  necessity  constrain’d,  they  live 
Dependent  upon  man ; those  in  his  fields, 
These  at  his  crib,  and  some  beneath  his  roof. 
They  prove  too  often  at  how  dear  a rate 
He  sells  protection.  Witness  at  his  foot 
The  Spaniel  dying  for  some  venial  fault, 

Under  dissection  of  the  knotted  scourge; 
Witness  the  patient  Ox,  with  stripes  and  yells 
Driven  to  the  slaughter,  goaded,  as  he  runs, 
To  madness  ; while  the  savage  at  his  heels 
Laughs  at  the  frantic  sufferer’s  fury,  spent 
Upon  the  guiltless  passenger  o’erthrown. 

He  too  is  witness,  noblest  of  the  train 
That  wait  on  man,  the  flight-performing  Horse 
With  unsuspecting  readiness  he  takes 
14* 


162 


THE  TASK. 


His  murderer  on  his  back,  and,  push’d  all  day 
With  bleeding  sides  and  flanks  that  heave  for  life 
To  the  far  distant  goal,  arrives  and  dies. 

So  little  mercy  shows  who  needs  so  much ! 

Does  law,  so  jealous  in  the  cause  of  man, 
Denounce  no  doom  on  the  delinquent?  None. 

He  lives,  and  o’er  his  brimmihg  beaker  boasts 
(As  if  barbarity  were  high  desert) 

The  inglorious  feat,  and  clamorous  in  praise 
Of  the  poor  brute,  seems  wisely  to  suppose 
The  honours  of  his  matchless  Horse  his  own. 

But  many  a crime  deem’d  innocent  on  earth 
Is  register’d  in  Heaven ; and  these,  no  doubt, 
Have  each  their  record,  with  a curse  annexed. 
Man  may  dismiss  compassion  from  his  heart, 

But  God  will  never.  When  He  charged  the  Jew 
To  assist  his  foe’s  downfallen  beast  to  rise ; 

And  when  the  bush-exploring  boy,  that  seized 
The  young,  to  let  the  parent  bird  go  free ; 

Proved  He  not  plainly,  that  His  meaner  works 
Are  yet  his  care,  and  have  an  interest  all, 

All,  in  the  universal  Father’s  love? 

On  Noah,  and  in  him  on  all  mankind, 

The  charter  was  conferr’d  by  which  we  hold 
The  flesh  of  animals  in  fee,  and  claim, 

O’er  all  we  feed  on,  power  of  life  and  death. 

But  read  the  instrument,  and  mark  it  well: 

The  oppression  of  a tyrannous  control 
Can  find  no  warrant  there.  Feed,  then,  and  yield 
Thanks  for  thy  food.  Carnivorous,  through  sin, 
Feed  on  the  slain,  but  spare  the  living  brute ! 

The  Governor  of  all,  Himself  to  all 
So  bountiful,  in  whose  attentive  ear 
The  unfledged  raven  and  the  lion’s  whelp 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


163 


Plead  not  in  vain  for  pity  on  the  pangs 
Of  hunger  unassuaged,  has  interposed, 

Not  seldom,  His  avenging  arm,  to  smite 
The  injurious  trampler  upon  Nature’s  law, 

That  claims  forbearance  even  for  a brute. 

He  hates  the  hardness  of  a Balaam’s  heart; 

And,  prophet  as  he  was,  he  might  not  strike 
The  blameless  animal,  without  rebuke, 

On  which  he  rode.  Her  opportune  offence 
Saved  him,  or  the  unrelenting  seer  had  died. 

Pie  sees  that  human  equity  is  slack 
To  interfere,  though  in  so  just  a cause, 

And  makes  the  task  His  own.  Inspiring  dumb 
And  helpless  victims  with  a sense  so  keen 
Of  injury,  with  such  knowledge  of  their  strength, 
And  such  sagacity  to  take  revenge, 

That  oft  the  beast  has  seem’d  to  judge  the  man. 

An  ancient,  not  a legendary  tale, 

By  one  of  sound  intelligence  rehearsed, 

(If  such  who  plead  for  Providence  may  seem 
In  modern  eyes,)  shall  make  the  doctrine  clear. 

Where  England,  stretch’d  towards  the  setting  sun, 
Narrow  and  long,  o’erlooks  the  western  wave, 

Dwelt  young  Misagathus ; a scorner  he 
Of  God  and  goodness,  Atheist  in  ostent, 

Vicious  in  act,  in  temper  savage-fierce. 

He  journey’d;  and  his  chance  was,  as  he  went, 

To  join  a traveller  of  far  different  note, 

Evander,  famed  for  piety,  for  years 
Deserving  honour,  but  for  wisdom  more. 

P^ame  had  not  left  the  venerable  man 
A stranger  to  the  manners  of  the  youth, 

Whose  face,  too,  was  familiar  to  his  view. 

Their  way  was  on  the  margin  of  the  land, 


164 


THE  TASK. 


O’er  the  green  summit  of  the  rocks,  whose  base 
Beats  back  the  roaring  surge,  scarce  heard  so  high. 
The  charity  that  warm’d  his  heart  was  moved 
At  sight  of  the  man-monster.  With  a smile 
Gentle,  and  affable,  and  full  of  grace, 

As  fearful  of  offending  whom  he  wish’d 
Much  to  persuade,  he  plied  his  ear  with  truths 
Not  harshly  thunder’d  forth,  or  rudely  press’d, 
But,  like  his  purpose,  gracious,  kind,  and  sweet. 
“And  dost  thou  dream,”  the  impenetrable  man 
Exclaim’d,  “that  me  the  lullabies  of  age, 

“ And  fantasies  of  dotards  such  as  thou 
“ Can  cheat,  or  move  a moment’s  fear  in  me  ? 

“ Mark  now  the  proof  I give  thee,  that  the  brave 
“ Need  no  such  aid  as  superstition  lends, 

“To  steel  their  hearts  against  the  dread  of  death.” 
He  spoke,  and  to  the  precipice  at  hand 
Push’d  with  a madman’s  fury.  Fancy  shrinks, 
And  the  blood  thrills  and  curdles,  at  the  thought 
Of  such  a gulf  as  he  design’d  his  grave. 

But,  though  the  felon  on  his  back  could  dare 
The  dreadful  leap,  more  rational  his  steed 
Declined  the  death,  and  wheeling  swiftly  round, 

Or  e’er  his  hoof  had  press’d  the  crumbling  verge, 
Baffled  his  rider,  saved  against  his  will. 

The  frenzy  of  the  brain  may  be  redress’d 
By  medicine  well  applied ; but  without  grace 
The  heart’s  insanity  admits  no  cure. 

Enraged  the  more,  by  what  might  have  reform’d 
His  horrible  intent,  again  he  sought 
Destruction,  with  a zeal  to  be  destroy’d, 

With  sounding  whip,  and  rowels  dyed  in  blood. 
But  still  in  vain.  The  Providence,  that  meant 
A longer  date  to  the  far  nobler  beast, 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


165 


Spared  yet  again  the  ignobler  for  his  sake. 

And  now,  his  prowess  proved,  and  his  sincere 
Incurable  obduracy  evinced, 

His  rage  grew  cool ; and  pleased,  perhaps,  to  have  earn’d 
So  cheaply  the  renown  of  that  attempt, 

With  looks  of  some  complacence  he  resumed 
His  road,  deriding  much  the  blank  amaze 
Of  good  Evander,  still  where  he  was  left 
Fix’d  motionless,  and  petrified  with  dread. 

So  on  they  fared.  Discourse  oil  other  themes 
Ensuing  seem’d  to  obliterate  the  past; 

And  tamer  far  for  so  much  fury  shown, 

(As  is  the  course  of  rash  and  fiery  men,) 

The  rude  companion  smiled,  as  if  transform’d. 

But  ’twas  a transient  calm.  A storm  was  near, 

An  unsuspected  storm.  His  hour  was  come. 

The  impious  challenger  of  Power  divine 

Was  now  to  learn  that  Heaven,  though  slow  to  wrath, 

Is  never  with  impunity  defied. 

His  Horse,  as  he  had  caught  his  master’s  mood, 
Snorting,  and  starting  into  sudden  rage, 

Unbidden,  and  not  now  to  be  controll’d, 

Rush’d  to  the  cliff,  and,  having  reach’d  it,  stood. 

At  once  the  shock  unseated  him : he  flew 
Sheer  o’er  the  craggy  barrier;  and  immersed 
Deep  in  the  flood,  found,  when  he  sought  it  not, 

The  death  he  had  deserved,  and  died  alone. 

So  God  wrought  double  justice;  made  the  fool 
The  victim  of  his  own  tremendous  choice, 

And  taught  a brute  the  way  to  safe  revenge. 

I would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends 
(Though  graced  with  polish’d  manners  and  fine  sense, 
Yet  wanting  sensibility)  the  man 
Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a worm. 


166 


THE  TASK. 


An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail 
That  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public  path ; 

But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarn’d, 

Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile  live. 

The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to  the  sight, 

And  charged,  perhaps,  with  venom,  that  intrudes, 

A visitor  unwelcome  into  scenes 

Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose,  the  alcove, 

The  chamber,  or  refectory,  may  die : 

A necessary  act  incurs  no  blame. 

Not  so  when,  held  within  their  proper  bounds, 
And  guiltless  of  offence,  they  range  the  air, 

Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  field  : 

There  they  are  privileged  ; and  he  that  hunts 
Or  harms  them  there,  is  guilty  of  a wrong, 
Disturbs  the  economy  of  Nature’s  realm, 

Who,  when  she  form’d,  design’d  them  an  abode. 
The  sum  is  this.  If  man’s  convenience,  health, 
Or  safety  interfere,  his  rights  and  claims 
Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish  theirs. 

Else  they  are  all — the  meanest  things  that  are, 

As  free  to  live,  and  to  enjoy  that  life, 

As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first, 

Who  in  His  sovereign  wisdom  made  them  all. 

Ye,  therefore,  who  love  mercy,  teach  your  sons 
To  love  it  too.  The  springtime  of  our  years 
Is  soon  dishonour’d  and  defiled  in  most 
By  budding  ills,  that  ask  a prudent  hand 
To  check  them.  But,  alas  ! none  sooner  shoots, 
If  unrestrain’d,  into  luxuriant  growth, 

Than  cruelty,  most  devilish  of  them  all.* 

Mercy  to  him  that  shows  it,  is  the  rule 
And  righteous  limitation  of  its  act, 

By  which  Heaven  moves  in  pardoning  guilty  man 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


167 


And  he  that  shows  none,  being  ripe  in  years, 

And  conscious  of  the  outrage  he  commits, 

Shall  seek  it,  and  not  find  it,  in  his  turn. 

Distinguish’d  much  by  reason,  and  still  more 
By  our  capacity  of  Grace  divine, 

From  creatures  that  exist  but  for  our  sake, 

Which,  having  served  us,  perish,  we  are  held 
Accountable ; and  God,  some  future  day, 

Will  reckon  with  us  roundly  for  the  abuse 
Of  what  He  deems  no  mean  or  trivial  trust. 
Superior  as  we  are,  they  yet  depend 
Not  more  on  human  help  than  we  on  theirs. 

Their  strength,  or  speed,  or  vigilance,  were  given 
In  aid  of  our  defects.  In  some  are  found 
Such  teachable  and  apprehensive  parts, 

That  man’s  attainments  in  his  own  concerns, 
Match’d  with  the  expertness  of  the  brutes  in  theirs, 
Are  oft-times  vanquish’d  and  thrown  far  behind. 
Some  show  that  nice  sagacity  of  smell, 

And  read  with  such  discernment,  in  the  port 
And  figure  of  the  man,  his  secret  aim, 

That  oft  we  owe  our  safety  to  a skill 
We  could  not  teach,  and  must  despair  to  learn. 

But  learn  we  might,  if  not  too  proud  to  stoop 
To  quadruped  instructors,  many  a good 
And  useful  quality,  and  virtue  too, 

Rarely  exemplified  among  ourselves. 

Attachment  never  to  be  wean’d,  or  changed 
By  any  change  of  fortune ; proof  alike 
Against  unkindness,  absence,  and  neglect; 

Fidelity,  that  neither  bribe  nor  threat 
Can  move  or  warp ; and  gratitude  for  small 
And  trivial  favours,  lasting  as  the  life, 

And  glistening  even  in  the  dying  eye. 


168 


THE  TASK. 


Man  praises  man.  Desert  in  arts  or  arms 
Wins  public  honour;  and  ten  thousand  sit 
Patiently  present  at  a sacred  song, 

Commemoration  mad ; content  to  hear 
(O  wonderful  effect  of  music’s  power !) 

Messiah’s  eulogy  for  Handel’s  sake. 

But  less,  methinks,  than  sacrilege  might  serve — 

(For  was  it  less  ? What  Heathen  would  have  dared 
To  strip  Jove’s  statue  of  his  oaken  wreath, 

And  hang  it  up  in  honour  of  a man  ?) 

Much  less  might  serve,  when  all  that  we  design 
Is  but  to  gratify  an  itching  ear, 

And  give  the  day  to  a musician’s  praise. 

Remember  Handel  ? Who,  that  was  not  born 
Deaf  as  the  dead  to  harmony,  forgets, 

Or  can,  the  more  than  Homer  of  his  age  ? 

Yes — we  remember  him  , and  while  we  praise 

A talent  so  divine,  remember  too 

That  His  most  holy  book  from  whom  it  came, 

Was  never  meant,  was  never  used  before, 

To  buckram  out  the  memory  of  a man. 

But  hush! — the  Muse,  perhaps,  is  too  severe  ; 

And,  with  a gravity  beyond  the  size 
And  measure  of  the  offence,  rebukes  a deed 
Less  impious  than  absurd,  and  owing  more 
To  want  of  judgment  than  to  wrong  design. 

So  in  the  chapel  of  old  Ely  House, 

When  wandering  Charles,  who  meant  to  be  the  third, 
Had  fled  from  William,  and  the  news  was  fresh, 

The  simple  clerk,  but  loyal,  did  announce, 

And  eke  did  rear  right  merrily,  two  staves, 

Sung  to  the  praise  and  glory  of  King  George  ! 

— Man  praises  man ; and  Garrick’s  memory  next, 
When  time  hath  somewhat  mellow’d  it,  and  made 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


169 


The  idol  of  our  worship  while  he  lived 
The  god  of  our  idolatry  once  more, 

Shall  have  its  altar ; and  the  world  shall  go 
In  pilgrimage  to  bow  before  his  shrine. 

The  theatre,  too  small,  shall  suffocate 

Its  squeezed  contents,  and  more  than  it  admits 

Shall  sigh  at  their  exclusion,  and  return 

Ungratified : for  there  some  noble  lord 

Shall  stuff  his  shoulders  with  King  Richard’s  bunch, 

Or  wrap  himself  in  Hamlet’s  inky  cloak, 

And  strut,  and  storm,  and  straddle,  stamp,  and  stare, 
To  show  the  world  how  Garrick  did  not  act. 

For  Garrick  was  a worshipper  himself ; 

He  drew  the  liturgy,  and  framed  the  rites 
And  solemn  ceremonial  of  the  day, 

And  call’d  the  world  to  worship  on  the  banks 
Of  Avon,  famed  in  song.  Ah,  pleasant  proof 
That  piety  has  still  in  human  hearts 
Some  place,  a spark  or  two  not  yet  extinct. 

The  mulberry  tree  was  hung  with  blooming  wreaths ; 
The  mulberry  tree  stood  centre  of  the  dance ; 

The  mulberry  tree  was  hymn’d  with  dulcet  airs ; 

And  from  his  touchwood  trunk  the  mulberry  tree 
Supplied  such  relics  as  devotion  holds 
Still  sacred,  and  preserves  with  pious  care. 

So  "twas  a hallow’d  time  : decorum  reign’d, 

And  mirth  without  offence.  No  few  return’d, 
Doubtless,  much  edified,  and  all  refresh’d. 

— Man  praises  man.  The  rabble,  all  alive 
From  tippling  benches,  cellars,  stalls,  and  sties, 
Swarm  in  the  streets.  The  statesman  of  the  day, 

A pompous  and  slow-moving  pageant,  comes. 

Some  shout  him,  and  some  hang  upon  his  car, 

To  gaze  in  his  eyes,  and  bless  him.  Maidens  wave 
15 


170 


THE  TASK. 


Their  kerchiefs,  and  old  women  weep  for  joy; 

While  others,  not  so  satisfied,  unhorse 
The  gilded  equipage,  and  turning  loose 
His  steeds,  usurp  a place  they  well  deserve. 

Why?  what  has  charm’d  them  ? Hath  he  saved  the  state 
No.  Doth  he  purpose  its  salvation?  No. 
Enchanting  novelty,  that  moon  at  full, 

That  finds  out  every  crevice  of  the  head 
That  is  not  sound  and  perfect,  hath  in  theirs 
Wrought  this  disturbance.  But  the  wane  is  near, 
And  his  own  cattle  must  suffice  him  soon. 

Thus  idly  do  we  waste  the  breath  of  praise, 

And  dedicate  a tribute,  in  its  use 
And  just  direction  sacred,  to  a thing 
Doom’d  to  the  dust,  or  lodged  already  there. 
Encomium  in  old  time  was  poet’s  work ; 

But  poets,  having  lavishly  long  since 
Exhausted  all  materials  of  the  art, 

The  task  now  falls  into  the  public  hand; 

And  I,  contented  with  an  humble  theme, 

Have  pour’d  my  stream  of  panegyric  down 
The  vale  of  Nature,  where  it  creeps  and  winds 
Among  her  lovely  works  with  a secure 
And  unambitious  course,  reflecting  clear, 

If  not  the  virtues,  yet  the  worth,  of  brutes. 

And  I am  recompensed,  and  deem  the  toils 
Of  poetry  not  lost,  if  verse  of  mine 
May  stand  between  an  animal  and  woe, 

And  teach  one  tyrant  pity  for  his  drudge. 

The  groans  of  Nature  in  this  nether  world, 

Which  Heaven  has  heard  for  ages,  have  an  end. 
Foretold  by  prophets,  and  by  poets  sung 
Whose  fire  was  kindled  at  the  prophets’  lamp, 

The  time  of  rest,  the  promised  sabbath,  comes. 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


171 


Six  thousand  years  of  sorrow  have  well  nigh 
Fulfill’d  their  tardy  and  disastrous  course 
Over  a sinful  world ; and  what  remains 
Of  this  tempestuous  state  of  human  things 
Is  merely  as  the  working  of  a sea 
Before  a calm,  that  rocks  itself  to  rest. 

For  He,  whose  car  the  winds  are,  and  the  clouds 
The  dust  that  waits  upon  His  sultry  march, 

When  sin  hath  moved  Him,  and  His  wrath  is  hot, 
Shall  visit  earth  in  mercy  ; shall  descend 
Propitious  in  His  chariot  paved  with  love ; 

And  what  His  storms  have  blasted  and  defaced 
For  man’s  revolt,  shall  with  a smile  repair. 

Sweet  is  the  harp  of  prophecy ; too  sweet 
Not  to  be  wrong'd  by  a mere  mortal  touch: 

Nor  can  the  wonders  it  records  be  sung 
To  meaner  music,  and  not  suffer  loss. 

But  when  a poet,  or  when  one  like  me, 

Happy  to  rove  among  poetic  flowers, 

Though  poor  in  skill  to  rear  them,  lights  at  last 
On  some  fair  theme,  some  theme  divinely  fair, 
Such  is  the  impulse  and  the  spur  he  feels 
To  give  it  praise  proportion’d  to  its  worth, 

That  not  to  attempt  it,  arduous  as  he  deems 
The  labour,  were  a task  more  arduous  still. 

O scenes  surpassing  fable,  and  yet  true, 

Scenes  of  accomplish’d  bliss  ! which  who  can  see, 
Though  but  in  distant  prospect,  and  not  feel 
His  soul  refresh’d  with  foretaste  of  the  joy? 

Rivers  of  gladness  water  all  the  earth, 

And  clothe  all  climes  with  beauty ; the  reproach 
Of  barrenness  is  past.  The  fruitful  field 
Laughs  with  abundance  ; and  the  land,  once  lean, 
Or  fertile  only  in  its  own  disgrace, 


172 


THE  TASK. 


Exults  to  see  its  thistly  curse  repeal’d ; 

The  various  seasons  woven  into  one, 

And  that  one  season  an  eternal  spring. 

The  garden  fears  no  blight,  and  needs  no  fence, 
For  there  is  none  to  covet,  all  are  full. 

The  lion,  and  the  libbard,  and  the  bear 

Graze  with  the  fearless  flocks  ; all  bask  at  noon 

Together,  or  all  gambol  in  the  shade 

Of  the  same  grove,  and  drink  one  common  stream. 

Antipathies  are  none.  No  foe  to  man 

Lurks  in  the  Serpent  now : the  mother  sees, 

And  smiles  to  see,  her  infant’s  playful  hand 
Stretch’d  forth  to  dally  with  the  crested  worm, 

To  stroke  his  azure  neck,  or  to  receive 
The  lambent  homage  of  his  arrowy  tongue. 

All  creatures  worship  man,  and  all  mankind 
One  Lord,  one  Father.  Error  has  no  place : 

That  creeping  pestilence  is  driven  away ; 

The  breath  of  Heaven  has  chased  it.  In  the  heart 
No  passion  touches  a discordant  string, 

But  all  is  harmony  and  love.  Disease 
Is  not : the  pure  and  uncontaminate  blood 
Holds  its  due  course,  nor  fears  the  frost  of  age. 

One  song  employs  all  nations  ; and  all  cry, 
n Worthy  the  Lamb,  for  He  was  slain  for  us !” 

The  dwellers  in  the  vales  and  on  the  rocks 
Shout  to  each  other,  and  the  mountain  tops 
From  distant  mountains  catch  the  flying  joy ; 

Till,  nation  after  nation  taught  the  strain, 

Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  Hosanna  round. 

Behold  the  measure  of  the  promise  fill’d ; 

See  Salem  built,  the  labour  of  a God ! 

Bright  as  a sun  the  sacred  city  shines ; 

All  kingdoms  and  all  princes  of  the  earth 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


173 


Flock  to  that  light;  the  glory  of  all  lands 
Flows  into  her;  unbounded  is  her  joy, 

And  endless  her  increase.  Thy  rams  are  there, 
Nebaioth,  and  the  flocks  of  Kedar  there  :* 

The  looms  of  Ormus,  and  the  mines  of  Ind, 

And  Saba’s  spicy  groves,  pay  tribute  there. 

Praise  is  in  all  her  gates.  Upon  her  walls, 

And  in  her  streets,  and  in  her  spacious  courts, 

Is  heard  salvation.  Eastern  Java  there 
Kneels  with  the  native  of  the  farthest  west ; 

And  ^Ethiopia  spreads  abroad  the  hand, 

And  worships.  Her  report  has  travelled  forth 
Into  all  lands.  From  every  clime  they  come 
To  see  thy  beauty,  and  to  share  thy  joy, 

O Sion!  an  assembly  such  as  earth 

Saw  never,  such  as  Heaven  stoops  down  to  see. 

Thus  heavenward  all  things  tend.  For  all  were  once 
Perfect,  and  all  must  be  at  length  restored. 

So  God  has  greatly  purposed ; who  would  else 
In  His  dishonour’d  works  Himself  endure 
Dishonour,  and  be  wrong’d  without  redress. 

Haste,  then,  and  wheel  away  a shatter’d  world, 

Ye  slow-revolving  seasons!  we  would  see 
(A  sight  to  which  our  eyes  are  strangers  yet) 

A world  that  does  not  dread  and  hate  His  laws 
And  suffer  for  its  crime ; would  learn  how  fair 
The  creature  is  that  God  pronounces  good, 

How  pleasant  in  itself  wrhat  pleases  Him. 

Here  every  drop  of  honey  hides  a sting; 

Worms  wind  themselves  into  our  sweetest  flowers; 
And  e’en  the  joy,  that  haply  some  poor  heart 

* Nebaioth  and  Kedar,  the  sons  of  Ishmael,  and  progenitors  of  the 
Arabs,  in  the  prophetic  Scripture  here  alluded  to,  may  be  reasonably 
considered  as  representatives  of  the  Gentiles  at  large, 

15* 


174 


THE  TASK. 


Derives  from  Heaven,  pure  as  the  fountain  is, 

Is  sullied  in  the  stream,  taking  a taint 
From  touch  of  human  lips,  at  best  impure. 

O for  a world  in  principle  as  chaste 
As  this  is  gross  and  selfish ! over  which 
Custom  and  prejudice  shall  bear  no  sway, 

That  govern  all  things  here,  shouldering  aside 
The  meek  and  modest  Truth,  and  forcing  her 
To  seek  a refuge  from  the  tongue  of  Strife 
In  nooks  obscure,  far  from  the  ways  of  men : 

Where  Violence  shall  never  lift  the  sword, 

Nor  Cunning  justify  the  proud  man’s  wrong, 
Leaving  the  poor  no  remedy  but  tears : 

Where  he  that  fills  an  office  shall  esteem 
The  occasion  it  presents  of  doing  good 
More  than  the  perquisite : where  Law  shall  speak 
Seldom,  and  never  but  as  Wisdom  prompts, 

And  Equity;  not  jealous  more  to  guard 
A worthless  form,  than  to  decide  aright: 

Where  Fashion  shall  not  sanctify  abuse, 

Nor  smooth  Good-breeding  (supplemental  grace) 
With  lean  performance  ape  the  work  of  Love! 

Come,  then,  and,  added  to  Thy  many  crowns, 
Receive  yet  one,  the  crown  of  all  the  earth, 

Thou  who  alone  art  worthy!  It  was  Thine 
By  ancient  covenant,  ere  Nature’s  birth; 

And  Thou  hast  made  it  Thine  by  purchase  since, 
And  overpaid  its  value  with  thy  blood. 

Thy  saints  proclaim  Thee  King ; and  in  their  hearts 
Thy  title  is  engraven  with  a pen 
Dipp’d  in  the  fountain  of  eternal  love. 

Thy  saints  proclaim  Thee  King;  and  Thy  delay 
Gives  courage  to  their  foes,  who,  could  they  see 
The  dawn  of  Thy  last  advent,  long-desired, 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


175 


Would  creep  into  the  bowels  of  the  hills, 

And  flee  for  safety  to  the  falling  rocks. 

The  very  spirit  of  the  world  is  tired 
Of  its  own  taunting  question,  ask’d  so  long, 

“Where  is  the  promise  of  your  Lord’s  approach?” 
The  infidel  has  shot  his  bolts  away, 

Till,  his  exhausted  quiver  yielding  none, 

He  gleans  the  blunted  shafts  that  have  recoil’d, 

And  aims  them  at  the  shield  of  Truth  again. 

The  veil  is  rent — rent  too  by  priestly  hands, 

That  hides  Divinity  from  mortal  eyes ; 

And  all  the  mysteries  to  Faith  proposed, 

Insulted  and  traduced,  are  cast  aside 
As  useless,  to  the  moles  and  to  the  bats. 

They  now  are  deem’d  the  faithful,  and  are  praised, 
Who,  constant  only  in  rejecting  Thee, 

Deny  Thy  Godhead  with  a martyr’s  zeal, 

And  quit  their  office  for  their  error’s  sake. 

Blind,  and  in  love  with  darkness  ! yet  e’en  these 
Worthy,  compared  with  sycophants,  who  knee 
Thy  name  adoring,  and  then  preach  Thee  man ! 

So  fares  Thy  church.  But  how  Thy  church  may  fare, 
The  world  takes  little  thought.  Who  will  may  preach, 
And  what  they  will.  All  pastors  are  alike 
To  wandering  sheep,  resolved  to  follow  none. 

Two  gods  divide  them  all — Pleasure  and  Gain : 

For  these  they  live,  they  sacrifice  to  these, 

And  in  their  service  wage  perpetual  war 

With  Conscience  and  with  Thee.  Lust  in  their  hearts, 

And  mischief  in  their  hands,  they  roam  the  earth, 

To  prey  upon  each  other:  stubborn,  fierce, 
High-minded,  foaming  out  their  own  disgrace. 

Thy  prophets  speak  of  such;  and,  noting  down 
The  features  of  the  last  degenerate  times, 


176 


THE  TASK. 


Exhibit  every  lineament  of  these. 

Come,  then,  and,  added  to  Thy  many  crowns, 

Receive  yet  one,  as  radiant  as  the  rest, 

Due  to  Thy  last  and  most  effectual  work, 

Thy  word  fulfill’d,  the  conquest  of  a world ! 

He  is  the  happy  man,  whose  life  e’en  now 
Shows  somewhat  of  that  happier  life  to  come  ; 

Who,  doom’d  to  an  obscure  but  tranquil  state, 

Is  pleased  with  it,  and,  were  he  free  to  choose, 

Would  make  his  fate  his  choice ; whom  peace,  the  fruit 
Of  virtue,  and  whom  virtue,  fruit  of  faith, 

Prepare  for  happiness  ; bespeak  him  one 
Content,  indeed,  to  sojourn  while  he  must 
Below  the  skies,  but  having  there  his  home. 

The  World  o’erlooks  him  in  lier  busy  search 
Of  objects,  more  illustrious  in  her  view; 

And,  occupied  as  earnestly  as  she, 

Though  more  sublimely,  he  o’erlooks  the  world. 

She  scorns  his  pleasures,  for  she  knows  them  not ; 

He  seeks  not  hers,  for  he  has  proved  them  vain. 

He  cannot  skim  the  ground  like  summer  birds 
Pursuing  gilded  flies ; and  such  he  deems 
Her  honours,  her  emoluments,  her  joys. 

Therefore  in  Contemplation  is  his  bliss, 

Whose  power  is  such,  that  whom  she  lifts  from  earth 
She  makes  familiar  with  a Heaven  unseen, 

And  shows  him  glories  yet  to  be  reveal’d. 

Not  slothful  he,  though  seeming  unemploy’d, 

And  censured  oft  as  useless.  Stillest  streams 
Oft  water  fairest  meadows  ; and  the  bird 
That  flutters  least  is  longest  on  the  wing. 

Ask  him,  indeed,  what  trophies  he  has  raised, 

Or  what  achievements  of  immortal  fame 
He  purposes,  and  he  shall  answer — None. 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


177 


His  warfare  is  within.  There  unfatigued 
His  fervent  spirit  labours.  There  he  fights, 

And  there  obtains  fresh  triumphs  o’er  himself, 

And  never- withering  wreaths,  compared  with  which 
The  laurels  that  a Caesar  reaps  are  weeds. 

Perhaps  the  self-approving  haughty  World, 

That,  as  she  sweeps  him  with  her  whistling  silks, 
Scarce  deigns  to  notice  him,  or,  if  she  see, 

Deems  him  a cipher  in  the  works  of  God, 

Receives  advantage  from  his  noiseless  hours, 

Of  which  she  little  dreams.  Perhaps  she  owes 
Her  sunshine  and  her  rain,  her  blooming  spring 
And  plenteous  harvest,  to  the  prayer  he  makes, 
When,  Isaac-like,  the  solitary  saint 
Walks  forth  to  meditate  at  eventide, 

And  think  on  her  who  thinks  not  for  herself. 
Forgive  him  then,  thou  bustler  in  concerns 
Of  little  worth,  an  idler  in  the  best, 

If,  author  of  no  mischief,  and  some  good, 

He  seek  his  proper  happiness  by  means 
That  may  advance,  but  cannot  hinder,  thine. 

Nor,  though  he  tread  the  secret  path  of  life, 

Engage  no  notice,  and  enjoy  much  ease, 

Account  him  an  encumbrance  on  the  state, 
Receiving  benefits,  and  rendering  none. 

His  sphere,  though  humble,  if  that  humble  sphere 
Shine  with  his  fair  example ; and  though  small 
His  influence,  if  that  influence  all  be  spent 
In  soothing  sorrow,  and  in  quenching  strife, 

In  aiding  helpless  indigence,  in  works 
From  which  at  least  a grateful  few  derive 
Some  taste  of  comfort  in  a world  of  woe  ; 

Then  let  the  supercilious  great  confess 
He  serves  his  country,  recompenses  well 


178 


THE  TASK. 


The  state  beneath  the  shadow  of  whose  vine 
He  sits  secure,  and  in  the  scale  of  life 
Holds  no  ignoble,  though  a slighted,  place. 

The  man,  whose  virtues  are  more  felt  than  seen, 
Must  drop,  indeed,  the  hope  of  public  praise; 

But  he  may  boast,  what  few  that  win  it  can, 
That,  if  his  country  stand  not  by  his  skill, 

At  least  his  follies  have  not  wrought  her  fall. 
Polite  Refinement  offers  him  in  vain 
Her  golden  tube,  through  which  a sensual  world 
Draws  gross  impurity,  and  likes  it  well, 

The  neat  conveyance  hiding  all  the  offence. 

Not  that  he  peevishly  rejects  a mode, 

Because  that  World  adopts  it.  If  it  bear 
The  stamp  and  clear  impression  of  good  sense, 
And  be  not  costly  more  than  of  true  worth, 

He  puts  it  on,  and  for  decorum  sake 
Can  wear  it  e’en  as  gracefully  as  she. 

She  judges  of  refinement  by  the  eye, 

He  by  the  test  of  conscience,  and  a heart 
Not  soon  deceived;  aware  that  what  is  base 
No  polish  can  make  sterling ; and  that  vice, 
Though  well  perfumed  and  elegantly  dress’d, 
Like  an  unburied  carcass  trick’d  with  flowers, 

Is  but  a garnish’d  nuisance,  fitter  far 
For  cleanly  riddance,  than  for  fair  attire. 

So  life  glides  smoothly  and  by  stealth  away, 
More  golden  than  that  age  of  fabled  gold 
Renown’d  in  ancient  song;  not  vex’d  with  care 
Or  stain’d  with  guilt,  beneficent,  approved 
Of  God  and  man,  and  peaceful  in  its  end. 

So  glide  my  life  away ! and  so,  at  last, 

My  share  of  duties  decently  fulfill’d, 

May  some  disease,  not  tardy  to  perform 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


179 


Its  destined  office,  yet  with  gentle  stroke, 

Dismiss  me  weary  to  a safe  retreat, 

Beneath  the  turf  that  I have  often  trod. 

It  shall  not  grieve  me  then,  that  once,  when  call’d 
To  dress  a Sofa  with  the  flowers  of  verse, 

I play’d  awhile,  obedient  to  the  fair, 

With  that  light  task;  but  soon,  to  please  her  more, 
Whom  flowers  alone  I knew  would  little  please, 

Let  fall  the  unfinish’d  wreath,  and  roved  for  fruit ; 
Roved  far,  and  gather’d  much  : some  harsh,  ’tis  true, 
Pick’d  from  the  thorns  and  briers  of  reproof, 

But  wholesome,  well-digested ; grateful  some 
To  palates  that  can  taste  immortal  truth ; 

Insipid  else,  and  sure  to  be  despised. 

But  all  is  in  His  hand,  whose  praise  I seek. 

In  vain  the  Poet  sings,  and  the  world  hears, 

If  He  regard  not,  though  divine  the  theme. 

’Tis  not  in  artful  measures,  in  the  chime 
And  idle  tinkling  of  a minstrel’s  lyre, 

To  charm  His  ear,  whose  eye  is  on  the  heart ; 

Whose  frown  can  disappoint  the  proudest  strain, 
Whose  approbation — prosper  even  mine. 


* < 


TIROCINIUM; 

OR, 

A REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 


Kc0aAaioi/  Srj  iraiieias  opOr/  rpocpri. 

Plato. 

A pxw  7co)uTSias  arracrjSj  vecov  rpocpa. 

Diog.  Laert. 


16 


TO  THE 


REV.  WILLIAM  CAWTHORNE  UNWIN, 

RECTOR  OF  STOCK,  IN  ESSEX, 

THE  TUTOR  OF  HIS  TWO  SONS, 

THE  FOLLOWING 

POEM, 

RECOMMENDING  PRIVATE  TUITION, 

IN  PREFERENCE  TO 

AN  EDUCATION  AT  SCHOOL, 

IS  INSCRIBED, 

BY  HIS  AFFECTIONATE  FRIEND, 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 

Olney,  Nov.  6,  1784. 


183 


TIROCINIUM. 


It  is  not  from  his  form,  in  which  we  trace 
Strength  join’d  with  beauty,  dignity  with  grace, 
That  man,  the  master  of  this  globe,  derives 
His  right  of  empire  over  all  that  lives. 

That  form,  indeed,  the  associate  of  a mind 
Vast  in  its  powers,  ethereal  in  its  kind; 

That  form,  the  labour  of  Almighty  skill, 

Framed  for  the  service  of  a freeborn  will, 

Asserts  precedence,  and  bespeaks  control, 

But  borrows  all  its  grandeur  from  the  soul. 

Hers  is  the  state,  the  splendour,  and  the  throne; 
An  intellectual  kingdom,  all  her  own. 

For  her  the  Memory  fills  her  ample  page 
With  truths  pour’d  down  from  every  distant  age 
For  her  amasses  an  unbounded  store, 

The  wisdom  of  great  nations,  now  no  more  ; 
Though  laden,  not  encumber’d  with  her  spoil ; 
Laborious,  yet  unconscious  of  her  toil ; 

When  copiously  supplied,  then  most  enlarged ; 
Still  to  be  fed,  and  not  to  be  surcharged. 

For  her  the  Fancy,  roving  unconfined, 

The  present  Muse  of  every  pensive  mind, 
Works  magic  wonders,  adds  a brighter  hue 
To  Nature’s  scenes  than  Nature  ever  knew. 

At  her  command  winds  rise,  and  waters  roar, 
Again  she  lays  them  slumbering  on  the  shore ; 

16*  185 


IS  6 


tirocinium;  or, 


With  flower  and  fruit  the  wilderness  supplies, 

Or  bids  the  rocks  in  ruder  pomp  arise. 

For  her  the  Judgment,  umpire  in  the  strife 
That  Grace  and  Nature  have  to  wage  through  life, 
Quick-sighted  arbiter  of  good  and  ill, 

Appointed  sage  preceptor  to  the  Will, 

Condemns,  approves,  and,  with  a faithful  voice, 
Guides  the  decision  of  a doubtful  choice. 

Why  did  the  fiat  of  a God  give  birth 
To  yon  fair  Sun,  and  his  attendant  Earth? 

And,  when  descending  he  resigns  the  skies, 

Why  takes  the  gentler  Moon  her  turn  to  rise. 
Whom  Ocean  feels  through  all  his  countless  waves, 
And  owns  her  power  on  every  shore  he  laves  ? 

Why  do  the  seasons  still  enrich  the  year, 

Fruitful  and  young  as  in  their  first  career  ? 

Spring  hangs  her  infant  blossoms  on  the  trees, 
Rock’d  in  the  cradle  of  the  western  breeze; 

Summer  in  haste  the  thriving  charge  receives 
Beneath  the  shade  of  her  expanded  leaves, 

Till  Autumn’s  fiercer  heats  and  plenteous  dews 
Dye  them,  at  last,  in  all  their  glowing  hues. 

’Twere  wild  profusion  all,  and  bootless  waste, 
Power  misemploy’d,  munificence  misplaced, 

Had  not  its  Author  dignified  the  plan, 

And  crown’d  it  with  the  majesty  of  man. 

Thus  form’d,  thus  placed,  intelligent,  and  taught, 
Look  where  he  will,  the  wonders  God  has  wrought, 
The  wildest  scorner  of  his  Maker’s  laws 
Finds,  in  a sober  moment,  time  to  pause, 

To  press  the  important  question  on  his  heart, 

“ Why  form’d  at  all,  and  wherefore  as  thou  art  ?” 

If  man  be  what  he  seems,  this  hour  a slave, 

The  next  mere  dust  and  ashes  in  the  grave ; 


A REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 


187 


Endued  with  reason,  only  to  descry 
His  crimes  and  follies  with  an  aching  eye ; 

With  passions,  just  that  he  may  prove  with  pain 
The  force  he  spends  against  their  fury,  vain ; 

And  if,  soon  after  having  burnt  by  turns 
With  every  lust  with  which  frail  Nature  burns, 

His  being  end  where  death  dissolves  the  bond, 

The  tomb  take  all,  and  all  be  blank  beyond; 

Then  he,  of  all  that  Nature  has  brought  forth, 

Stands  self-impeach’d  the  creature  of  least  worth, 
And,  useless  while  he  lives  and  when  he  dies, 

Brings  into  doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  skies. 

Truths,  that  the  learn’d  pursue  with  eager  thought, 
Are  not  important  always  as  dear-bought, 

Proving  at  last,  though  told  in  pompous  strains, 

A childish  waste  of  philosophic  pains  ; 

But  truths,  on  which  depends  our  main  concern, 
That  ’tis  our  shame  and  misery  not  to  learn, 

Shine  by  the  side  of  every  path  we  tread 
With  such  a lustre,  he  that  runs  may  read. 

’Tis  true,  that  if  to  trifle  life  away 
Down  to  the  sunset  of  their  latest  day, 

Then  perish  on  futurity’s  wide  shore 
Like  fleeting  exhalations,  found  no  more, 

Were  all  that  Heaven  required  of  humankind, 

And  all  the  plan  their  destiny  design’d, 

What  none  could  reverence  all  might  justly  blame, 
And  man  would  breathe  but  for  his  Maker’s  shame. 
But  Reason  heard,  and  Nature  well  perused, 

At  once  the  dreaming  mind  is  disabused. 

If  all  we  find  possessing  earth,  sea,  air, 

Reflect  His  attributes  who  placed  them  there, 

Fulfil  the  purpose,  and  appear  design’d 
Proofs  of  the  wisdom  of  the  all-seeing  Mind ; 


188 


TIROCINIUM  ; OR, 


’Tis  plain  the  creature,  whom  He  chose  to  invest 
With  kingship  and  dominion  o’er  the  rest, 

Received  his  nobler  nature,  and  was  made 
Fit  for  the  power  in  which  he  stands  array’d ; 

That  first  or  last,  hereafter  if  not  here, 

He  too  might  make  his  Author’s  wisdom  clear, 

Praise  Him  on  earth,  or,  obstinately  dumb, 

Suffer  His  justice  in  a world  to  come. 

This  once  believed,  ’twere  logic  misapplied 
To  prove  a consequence  by  none  denied, 

That  we  are  bound  to  cast  the  minds  of  youth 
Betimes  into  the  mould  of  heavenly  truth, 

That,  taught  of  God,  they  may,  indeed,  be  wise, 

Nor,  ignorantly  wandering,  miss  the  skies. 

In  early  days  the  conscience  has  in  most 
A quickness,  which  in  later  life  is  lost: 

Preserved  from  guilt  by  salutary  fears, 

Or,  guilty,  soon  relenting  into  tears. 

Too  careless  often,  as  our  years  proceed, 

What  friends  we  sort  with,  or  what  books  we  read, 
Our  parents  yet  exert  a prudent  care 
To  feed  our  infant  minds  with  proper  fare; 

And  wisely  store  the  nursery  by  degrees 

With  wholesome  learning,  yet  acquired  with  ease. 

Neatly  secured  from  being  soil’d  or  torn, 

Beneath  a pane  of  thin  translucent  horn, 

A book  (to  please  us  at  a tender  age 

’Tis  call’d  a book,  though  but  a single  page) 

Presents  the  prayer  the  Saviour  deign’d  to  teach, 
Which  children  use,  and  parsons — when  they  preach. 
Lisping  our  syllables,  we  scramble  next 
Through  moral  narrative,  or  sacred  text ; 

And  learn  with  wonder  how  this  world  began, 

Who  made,  who  marr’d,  and  who  has  ransom’d  man : 


A REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 


189 


Points  which,  unless  the  Scripture  made  them  plain, 
The  wisest  heads  might  agitate  in  vain. 

0 thou,  whom  borne  on  Fancy’s  eager  wing 
Back  to  the  season  of  life’s  happy  spring, 

1 pleased  remember,  and,  while  memory  yet 
Holds  fast  her  office  here,  can  ne’er  forget; 

Ingenious  dreamer,  in  whose  well-told  tale 
Sweet  fiction  and  sweet  truth  alike  prevail ; 

Whose  humorous  vein,  strong  sense,  and  simple  style, 
May  teach  the  gayest,  make  the  gravest  smile  ; 

Witty,  and  well-employ’d,  and,  like  thy  Lord, 
Speaking  in  parables  His  slighted  word ; 

I name  thee  not,  lest  so  despised  a name 
Should  move  a sneer  at  thy  deserved  fame ; 

Yet  e’en  in  transitory  life’s  late  day, 

That  mingles  all  my  brown  with  sober  grey, 

Revere  the  man,  whose  pilgrim  marks  the  road, 

And  guides  the  progress  of  the  soul  to  God. 

’Twere  well  with  most,  if  books,  that  could  engage 
Their  childhood,  pleased  them  at  a riper  age ; 

The  man,  approving  what  had  charm’d  the  boy, 
Would  die  at  last  in  comfort,  peace,  and  joy ; 

And  not  with  curses  on  his  heart  who  stole 
The  gem  of  truth  from  his  unguarded  soul. 

The  stamp  of  artless  piety  impress’d 
By  kind  tuition  on  his  yielding  breast, 

The  youth  now  bearded,  and  yet  pert  and  raw, 
Regards  with  scorn,  though  once  received  with  awe ; 
And,  warp’d  into  the  labyrinth  of  lies, 

That  babblers,  call’d  philosophers,  devise, 

Blasphemes  his  creed,  as  founded  on  a plan 
Replete  with  dreams  unworthy  of  a man. 

Touch  but  his  nature  in  its  ailing  part, 

Assert  the  native  evil  of  his  heart, 


190  tirocinium;  or, 

His  pride  resents  the  charge,  although  the  proof  * 
Rise  in  his  forehead,  and  seem  rank  enough : 

Point  to  the  cure,  describe  a Saviour’s  cross 
As  God’s  expedient  to  retrieve  his  loss, 

The  young  apostate  sickens  at  the  view, 

And  hates  it  with  the  malice  of  a Jew. 

How  weak  the  barrier  of  mere  Nature  proves, 
Opposed  against  the  pleasures  Nature  loves  ! 

While  self-betray’d,  and  wilfully  undone, 

She  longs  to  yield,  no  sooner  wooed  than  won. 

Try  now  the  merits  of  this  blest  exchange 
Of  modest  truth  for  wit’s  eccentric  range. 

Time  was,  he  closed  as  he  began  the  day 
With  decent  duty,  not  ashamed  to  pray : 

The  practice  was  a bond  upon  his  heart, 

A pledge  he  gave  for  a consistent  part ; 

Nor  could  he 'dare  presumptuously  displease 
A Power,  confess’d  so  lately  on  his  knees. 

But  now  farewell  all  legendary  tales, 

The  shadows  fly,  philosophy  prevails ; 

Prayer  to  the  winds,  and  caution  to  the  waves ; 
Religion  makes  the  free  by  nature  slaves. 

Priests  have  invented,  and  the  world  admired 
What  knavish  priests  promulgate  as  inspired ; 

Till  Reason,  now  no  longer  overawed, 

Resumes  her  powers,  and  spurns  the  clumsy  fraud; 
And,  common  sense  diffusing  real  day, 

The  meteor  of  the  Gospel  dies  away. 

Such  rhapsodies  our  shrewd  discerning  youth 
Learn  from  expert  inquiries  after  truth ; 

Whose  only  care,  might  truth  presume  to  speak, 

Is  not  to  find  what  they  profess  to  seek. 

* See  2 Chron.  xxvi.  19. 


A REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 


191 


And  thus,  well  tutor’d  only  while  we  share 
A mother’s  lectures  and  a nurse’s  care ; 

And  taught  at  schools  much  mythologic  stuff,* 

But  sound  religion  sparingly  enough ; 

Our  early  notices  of  truth,  disgraced, 

Soon  lose  their  credit,  and  are  all  effaced. 

Would  you  your  son  should  be  a sot  or  dunce, 
Lascivious,  headstrong,  or  all  these  at  once ; 

That  in  good  time  the  stripling’s  finish’d  taste 
For  loose  expense,  and  fashionable  waste, 

Should  prove  your  ruin,  and  his  own  at  last; 

Train  him  in  public  with  a mob  of  boys, 

Childish  in  mischief  only  and  in  noise, 

Else  of  a mannish  growth,  and  five  in  ten 
In  infidelity  and  lewdness  men. 

There  shall  he  learn,  ere  sixteen  winters  old, 

That  authors  are  most  useful  pawn’d  or  sold; 

That  pedantry  is  all  that  schools  impart, 

But  taverns  teach  the  knowledge  of  the  heart; 

There  waiter  Dick,  with  Bacchanalian  lays 
Shall  win  his  heart,  and  have  his  drunken  praise, 

His  counsellor  and  bosom-friend  shall  prove, 

And  some  street-pacing  harlot  his  first  love. 

Schools,  unless  discipline  were  doubly  strong, 

Detain  their  adolescent  charge  too  long ; 

The  management  of  tyros  of  eighteen 
Is  difficult,  their  punishment  obscene. 

* The  Author  begs  leave  to  explain : — Sensible  that,  without  such 
knowledge,  neither  the  ancient  poets  nor  historians  can  be  tasted,  or, 
indeed,  understood,  he  does  not  mean  to  censure  the  pains  that  are 
taken  to  instruct  a schoolboy  in  the  religion  of  the  Heathen,  but  merely 
that  neglect  of  Christian  culture,  which  leaves  him  shamefully  ignorant 
of  his  own. 


192 


tirocinium;  or, 


The  stout  tall  captain,  whose  superior  size 
The  minor  heroes  view  with  envious  eyes, 

Becomes  their  pattern,  upon  whom  they  fix 
Their  whole  attention,  and  ape  all  his  tricks. 

His  pride,  that  scorns  to  obey  or  to  submit, 

With  them  is  courage ; his  effrontery  wit. 

His  wild  excursions,  window-breaking  feats, 

Robbery  of  gardens,  quarrels  in  the  streets, 

His  hairbreadth  ’scapes,  and  all  his  daring  schemes, 
Transport  them,  and  are  made  their  favourite  themes. 
In  little  bosoms  such  achievements  strike 
A kindred  spark : they  burn  to  do  the  like. 

Thus,  half-accomplish’d  ere  he  yet  begin 
To  show  the  peeping  down  upon  his  chin ; 

And,  as  maturity  of  years  comes  on, 

Made  just  the  adept  that  you  design’d  your  son ; 

To  ensure  the  perseverance  of  his  course, 

And  give  your  monstrous  project  all  its  force, 

Send  him  to  college.  If  he  there  be  tamed, 

Or  in  one  article  of  vice  reclaim’d, 

Where  no  regard  of  ord’nances  is  shown 
Or  look’d  for  now,  the  fault  must  be  his  own. 

Some  sneaking  virtue  lurks  in  him,  no  doubt, 

Where  neither  strumpets’  charms,  nor  drinking-bout, 
Nor  gambling  practices,  can  find  it  out. 

Such  youths  of  spirit,  and  that  spirit  too, 

Ye  nurseries  of  our  boys,  we  owe  to  you: 

Though  from  ourselves  the  mischief  more  proceeds, 
For  public  schools  ’tis  public  folly  feeds. 

The  slaves  of  custom  and  establish’d  mode, 

With  packhorse  constancy  we  keep  the  road, 
Crooked  or  straight,  through  quags  or  thorny  dells, 
True  to  the  jingling  of  our  leader’s  bells. 


A REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 


193 


To  follow  foolish  precedents,  and  wink 
With  both  our  eyes,  is  easier  than  to  think : 

And  such  an  age  as  ours  balks  no  expense, 

Except  of  caution,  and  of  common  sense ; 

Else,  sure,  notorious  fact,  and  proof  so  plain, 
Would  turn  our  steps  into  a wiser  train. 

I blame  not  those  who,  with  what  care  they  can, 
O’erwatch  the  numerous  and  unruly  clan ; 

Or,  if  I blame,  ’tis  only  that  they  dare 
Promise  a work  of  which  they  must  despair. 

Have  ye,  ye  sage  intendants  of  the  whole, 

A ubiquarian  presence  and  control, 

Elisha’s  eye,  that,  when  Gehazi  stray’d, 

Went  with  him,  and  saw  all  the  game  he  play’d? 
Yes — ye  are  conscious  ; and  on  all  the  shelves 
Your  pupils  strike  upon,  have  struck  yourselves. 

Or  if,  by  nature  sober,  ye  had  then, 

Boys  as  ye  were,  the  gravity  of  men; 

Ye  knew  at  least,  by  constant  proofs  address’d 
To  ears  and  eyes,  the  vices  of  the  rest. 

But  ye  connive  at  what  ye  cannot  cure, 

And  evils  not  to  be  endured,  endure, 

Lest  power  exerted,  but  without  success, 

Should  make  the  little  ye  retain  still  less. 

Ye  once  were  justly  famed  for  bringing  forth 
Undoubted  scholarship  and  genuine  worth ; 

And  in  the  firmament  of  fame  still  shines 
A glory,  bright  as  that  of  all  the  signs, 

Of  poets  raised  by  you,  and  statesmen,  and  divines. 
Peace  to  them  all ! those  brilliant  times  are  fled, 
And  no  such  lights  are  kindling  in  their  stead. 

Our  striplings  shine,  indeed,  but  with  such  rays 
As  set  the  midnight  riot  in  a blaze ; 


194 


tirocinium;  or, 


And  seem,  if  judged  by  their  expressive  looks, 

Deeper  in  none  than  in  their  surgeons’  books. 

Say,  Muse,  (for,  education  made  the  song, 

No  Muse  can  hesitate,  or  linger  long,) 

What  causes  move  us,  knowing,  as  we  must, 

That  these  menageries  all  fail  their  trust, 

To  send  our  sons  to  scout  and  scamper  there, 

While  colts  and  puppies  cost  us  so  much  care  ? 

Be  it  a weakness,  it  deserves  some  praise, 

We  love  the  play-place  of  our  early  days; 

The  scene  is  touching,  and  the  heart  is  stone, 

That  feels  not  at  that  sight,  and  feels  at  none. 

The  wall  on  which  we  tried  our  graving  skill, 

The  very  name  we  carved,  subsisting  still ; 

The  bench  on  which  we  sat,  while  deep  employ’d, 
Though  mangled,  hack’d,  and  hew’d,  not  yet  destroy’d  ; 
The  little  ones,  unbutton’d,  glowing  hot, 

Playing  our  games,  and  on  the  very  spot ; 

As  happy  as  we  once,  to  kneel  and  draw 
The  chalky  ring,  and  knuckle  down  at  taw  ; 

To  pitch  the  ball  into  the  grounded  hat, 

Or  drive  it  devious  with  a dexterous  pat ; 

The  pleasing  spectacle  at  once  excites 
Such  recollection  of  our  own  delights, 

That,  viewing  it,  we  seem  almost  to  obtain 
Our  innocent  sweet  simple  years  again. 

This  fond  attachment  to  the  well-known  place 
Whence  first  we  started  into  life’s  long  race, 

Maintains  its  hold  with  such  unfailing  sway, 

We  feel  it  e’en  in  age,  and  at  our  latest  day. 

Hark ! how  the  sire  of  chits,  whose  future  share 
Of  classic  food  begins  to  be  his  care, 

With  his  own  likeness  placed  on  either  knee, 

Indulges  all  a father’s  heart-felt  glee ; 


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195 


And  tells  them,  as  he  strokes  their  silver  locks, 
That  they  must  soon  learn  Latin,  and  to  box  ; 
Then,  turning,  he  regales  his  listening  wife 
With  all  the  adventures  of  his  early  life  ; 

His  skill  in  coachmanship,  or  driving  chaise; 

In  bilking  tavern  bills,  and  spouting  plays  ; 

What  shifts  he  used,  detected  in  a scrape, 

How  he  was  flogg’d,  or  had  the  luck  to  escape ; 
What  sums  he  lost  at  play,  and  how  he  sold 
Watch,  seals,  and  all — till  all  his  pranks  are  told. 
Retracing  thus  his  frolics , (’tis  a name 
That  palliates  deeds  of  folly  and  of  shame,) 

He  gives  the  local  bias  all  its  sway ; 

Resolves  that  where  he  play’d  his  sons  shall  play, 
And  destines  their  bright  genius  to  be  shown 
Just  in  the  scene  where  he  display’d  his  own. 
The  meek  and  bashful  boy  will  soon  be  taught 
To  be  as  bold  and  forward  as  he  ought ; 

The  rude  will  scuffle  through  with  ease  enough, 
Great  schools  suit  best  the  sturdy  and  the  rough. 
Ah,  happy  designation,  prudent  choice, 

The  event  is  sure;  expect  it,  and  rejoice  ! 

Soon  see  your  wish  fulfill’d  in  either  child, 

The  pert  made  perter,  and  the  tame  made  wild. 

The  great,  indeed,  by  titles,  riches,  birth, 
Excused  the  encumbrance  of  more  solid  worth, 
Are  best  disposed  of  where  with  most  success 
They  may  acquire  that  confident  address, 

Those  habits  of  profuse  and  lewd  expense, 

That  scorn  of  all  delights  but  those  of  sense, 
Which,  though  in  plain  plebeians  we  condemn, 
With  so  much  reason  all  expect  from  them. 

But  families  of  less  illustrious  fame, 

Whose  chief  distinction  is  their  spotless  name, 


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tirocinium;  or. 


Whose  heirs,  their  honours  none,  their  income  small, 
Must  shine  by  true  desert,  or  not  at  all, 

What  dream  they  of,  that  with  so  little  care 
They  risk  their  hopes,  their  dearest  treasure,  there? 
They  dream  of  little  Charles  or  William  graced 
With  wig  prolix,  down  flowing  to  his  waist; 

They  see  the  attentive  crowds  his  talents  draw, 

They  hear  him  speak — the  oracle  of  law. 

The  father,  who  designs  his  babe  a priest, 

Dreams  him  episcopally  such  at  least ; 

And,  while  the  playful  jockey  scours  the  room 
Briskly,  astride  upon  the  parlour  broom, 

In  fancy  sees  him  more  superbly  ride 

In  coach  with  purple  lined,  and  mitres  on  its  side. 

Events  improbable  and  strange  as  these, 

Which  only  a parental  eye  foresees, 

A public  school  shall  bring  to  pass  with  ease. 

But  how?  resides  such  virtue  in  that  air, 

As  must  create  an  appetite  for  prayer? 

And  will  it  breathe  into  him  all  the  zeal 
That  candidates  for  such  a prize  should  feel, 

To  take  the  lead,  and  be  the  foremost  still 
In  all  true  worth  and  literary  skill? 

“ Ah,  blind  to  bright  futurity,  untaught 
“ The  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  dull  of  thought! 
“ Church-ladders  are  not  always  mounted  best 
“ By  learned  clerks,  and  Latinists  profess’d. 

“ The  exalted  prize  demands  an  upward  look, 

“ Not  to  be  found  by  poring  on  a book. 

“ Small  skill  in  Latin,  and  still  less  in  Greek, 

“ Is  more  than  adequate  to  all  I seek. 

“Let  erudition  grace  him,  or  not  grace, 

“I  give  the  bauble  but  the  second  place; 


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197 


“ His  wealth,  fame,  honours,  all  that  I intend, 

“ Subsist  and  centre  in  one  point — a friend. 

“A  friend,  whate’er  he  studies  or  neglects, 

“ Shall  give  him  consequence,  heal  all  defects. 

“ His  intercourse  with  peers  and  sons  of  peers— 

“ There  dawns  the  splendour  of  his  future  years  ; 

“ In  that  bright  quarter  his  propitious  skies 
“ Shall  blush  betimes,  and  there  his  glory  rise. 

“Your  Lordship , and  Your  Grace ! what  school  can 
“ A rhetoric  equal  to  those  parts  of  speech?  [teach 
“ What  need  of  Homer’s  verse  or  Tully’s  prose, 

“ Sweet  interjections  ! if  he  learn  but  those  ? 

“ Let  reverend  churls  his  ignorance  rebuke, 

“Who  starve  upon  a dog’s-ear’d  Pentateuch ; — 

“ The  parson  knows  enough,  who  knows  a Duke.” 
Egregious  purpose ! worthily  begun 
In  barbarous  prostitution  of  your  son; 

Press’d  on  his  part  by  means  that  would  disgrace 
A scrivener’s  clerk,  or  footman  out  of  place, 

And  ending,  if  at  last  its  end  be  gain’d, 

In  sacrilege,  in  God’s  own  house  profaned. 

It  may  succeed ; and,  if  his  sins  should  call 
For  more  than  common  punishment,  it  shall; 

The  wretch  shall  rise,  and  be  the  thing  on  earth 
Least  qualified  in  honour,  learning,  worth, 

To  occupy  a sacred,  awful  post, 

In  which  the  best  and  worthiest  tremble  most. 

The  royal  letters  are  a thing  of  course, 

A King  that  would,  might  recommend  his  horse ; 

And  Deans,  no  doubt,  and  Chapters,  with  one  voice, 
As  bound  in  duty,  would  confirm  the  choice. 

Behold  your  Bishop  ! well  he  plays  his  part, 

Christian  in  name,  and  infidel  in  heart, 

17* 


198 


tirocinium;  or, 


Ghostly  in  office,  earthly  in  his  plan, 

A slave  at  court,  elsewhere  a lady’s  man. 

Dumb  as  a senator,  and  as  a priest 
A piece  of  mere  church-furniture  at  best ; 

To  live  estranged  from  God  his  total  scope, 

And  his  end  sure,  without  one  glimpse  of  hope. 

But  fair  although  and  feasible  it  seem, 

Depend  not  much  upon  your  golden  dream  ; 

For  Providence,  that  seems  concern’d  to  exempt 
The  hallow’d  bench  from  absolute  contempt, 

In  spite  of  all  the  wrigglers  into  place, 

Still  keeps  a seat  or  two  for  worth  and  grace ; 

And  therefore  ’tis  that,  though  the  sight  be  rare, 

We  sometimes  see  a Lowth  or  Bagot  there. 

Besides,  school-friendships  are  not  always  found, 
Though  fair  in  promise,  permanent  and  sound ; 

The  most  disinterested  and  virtuous  minds, 

In  early  years  connected,  time  unbinds ; 

New  situations  give  a different  cast 
Of  habit,  inclination,  temper,  taste ; 

And  he,  that  seem’d  our  counterpart  at  first, 

Soon  shows  the  strong  similitude  reversed. 

Young  heads  are  giddy,  and  young  hearts  are  warm, 
And  make  mistakes  for  manhood  to  reform. 

Boys  are  at  best  but  pretty  buds  unblown, 

Whose  scent  and  hues  are  rather  guess’d  than  known. 
Each  dreams  that  each  is  just  what  he  appears, 

But  learns  his  error  in  maturer  years, 

When  disposition,  like  a sail  unfurl’d, 

Shows  all  its  rents  and  patches  to  the  world. 

If,  therefore,  e’en  when  honest  in  design, 

A boyish  friendship  may  so  soon  decline, 

’Twere  wiser,  sure,  to  inspire  a little  heart 
With  just  abhorrence  of  so  mean  a part, 


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199 


Than  set  your  son  to  work  at  a vile  trade 
For  wages  so  unlikely  to  be  paid. 

Our  public  hives  of  puerile  resort, 

That  are  of  chief  and  most  approved  report, 

To  such  base  hopes  in  many  a sordid  soul, 

Owe  their  repute  in  part,  but  not  the  whole. 

A principle,  whose  proud  pretensions  pass 
Unquestion’d,  though  the  jewel  be  but  glass— 
That  with  a world,  not  often  over-nice, 

Ranks  as  a virtue,  and  is  yet  a vice; 

Or  rather  a gross  compound,  justly  tried, 

Of  envy,  hatred,  jealousy,  and  pride — 
Contributes  most,  perhaps,  to  enhance  their  fame; 
And  Emulation  is  its  specious  name. 

Boys,  once  on  fire  with  that  contentious  zeal, 

Feel  all  the  rage  that  female  rivals  feel ; 

The  prize  of  beauty  in  a woman’s  eyes 
Not  brighter  than  in  theirs  the  scholar’s  prize. 

The  spirit  of  that  competition  burns 
With  all  varieties  of  ill  by  turns  ; 

Each  vainly  magnifies  his  own  success, 

Resents  his  fellow’s,  wishes  it  were  less, 

Exults  in  his  miscarriage,  if  he  fail, 

Deems  his  reward  too  great,  if  he  prevail, 

And  labours  to  surpass  him  day  and  night, 

Less  for  improvement  than  to  tickle  spite. 

The  spur  is  powerful,  and  I grant  its  force ; 

It  pricks  the  genius  forward  in  its  course, 

Allows  short  time  for  play,  and  none  for  sloth ; 
And  felt  alike  by  each,  advances  both : 

But  judge,  where  so  much  evil  intervenes, 

The  end,  though  plausible,  not  worth  the  means. 
Weigh,  fora  moment,  classical  desert 
Against  a heart  depraved  and  temper  hurt; 


200 


tirocinium;  or, 


Hurt  too,  perhaps,  for  life  ; for  early  wrong, 
Done  to  the  nobler  part,  affects  it  long ; 

And  you  are  staunch,  indeed,  in  learning’s  cause, 
If  you  can  crown  a discipline  that  draws 
Such  mischiefs  after  it  with  much  applause. 

Connexion  form’d  for  interest,  and  endear’d 
By  selfish  views  thus  censured  and  cashier’d ; 
And  emulation,  as  engendering  hate, 

Doom’d  to  a no  less  ignominious  fate : 

The  props  of  such  proud  seminaries  fall, 

The  Jachin  and  the  Boaz  of  them  all. 

Great  schools  rejected  then,  as  those  that  swell 
Beyond  a size  that  can  be  managed  well, 

Shall  royal  institutions  miss  the  bays, 

And  small  academies  win  all  the  praise  ? 

Force  not  my  drift  beyond  its  just  intent, 

I praise  a school  as  Pope  a government ; 

So  take  my  judgment  in  his  language  dress’d, 
“Whate’er  is  best  administer’d  is  best.” 

Few  boys  are  born  with  talents  that  excel, 

But  all  are  capable  of  living  well. 

Then  ask  not,  whether  limited  or  large  ? 

But,  watch  they  strictly,  or  neglect  their  charge  ? 
If  anxious  only  that  their  boys  may  learn , 

While  morals  languish,  a despised  concern, 

The  great  and  small  deserve  one  common  blame, 
Different  in  size,  but  in  effect  the  same. 

Much  zeal  in  virtue’s  cause  all  teachers  boast, 
Though  motives  of  mere  lucre  sway  the  most ; 
Therefore  in  towns  and  cities  they  abound, 

For  there  the  game  they  seek  is  easiest  found; 
Though  there,  in  spite  of  all  that  care  can  do, 
Traps  to  catch  youth  are  most  abundant  too. 


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201 


If  shrewd,  and  of  a well-constructed  brain, 

Keen  in  pursuit,  and  vigorous  to  retain, 

Your  son  come  forth  a prodigy  of  skill ; 

As,  wheresoever  taught,  so  form’d,  he  will; 

The  pedagogue,  with  self-complacent  air, 

Claims  more  than  half  the  praise  as  his  due  share ; 

But  if,  with  all  his  genius,  he  betray, 

Not  more  intelligent  than  loose  and  gay, 

Such  vicious  habits  as  disgrace  his  name, 

Threaten  his  health,  his  fortune,  and  his  fame ; 
Though  want  of  due  restraint  alone  have  bred 
The  symptoms  that  you  see  with  so  much  dread ; 
Unenvied  there,  he  may  sustain  alone 
The  whole  reproach,  the  fault  was  all  his  own. 

O ’tis  a sight  to  be  with  joy  perused, 

By  all  whom  sentiment  has  not  abused  ; 

New-fangled  sentiment,  the  boasted  grace 
Of  those  who  never  feel  in  the  right  place ; 

A sight  surpass’d  by  none  that  we  can  show, 

Though  Yestris  on  one  leg  still  shine  below; 

A father  blest  with  an  ingenuous  son, 

Father,  and  friend,  and  tutor,  all  in  one. 

How  ! — turn  again  to  tales  long  since  forgot, 
iEsop,  and  Phaedrus,  and  the  rest  ? — Why  not  ? 

He  will  not  blush  that  has  a father’s  heart, 

To  take,  in  childish  plays,  a childish  part ; 

But  bends  his  sturdy  back  to  any  toy 

That  youth  takes  pleasure  in,  to  please  his  boy ; 

Then  why  resign  into  a stranger’s  hand 
A task  as  much  within  your  own  command, 

That  God  and  nature,  and  your  interest  too, 

Seem  with  one  voice  to  delegate  to  you  ? 

Why  hire  a lodging  in  a house  unknown  [own  ? 

For  one  whose  tenderest  thoughts  all  hover  round  your 


202 


tirocinium;  or, 


This  second  weaning,  needless  as  it  is, 

How  does  it  lacerate  both  your  heart  and  his  ! 

The  indented  stick,  that  loses  day  by  day 
Notch  after  notch,  till  all  are  smooth’d  away, 

Bears  witness,  long  ere  his  dismission  come, 

With  what  intense  desire  he  wants  his  home. 

But  though  the  joys  he  hopes  beneath  your  roof 
Bid  fair  enough  to  answer  in  the  proof, 

Harmless,  and  safe,  and  natural  as  they  are, 

A disappointment  waits  him  even  there : 

Arrived,  he  feels  an  unexpected  change, 

He  blushes,  hangs  his  head,  is  shy  and  strange, 

No  longer  takes,  as  once,  with  fearless  ease, 

His  favourite  stand  between  his  father’s  knees, 

But  seeks  the  corner  of  some  distant  seat, 

And  eyes  the  door,  and  watches  a retreat, 

And,  least  familiar  where  he  should  be  most, 

Feels  all  his  happiest  privileges  lost. 

Alas,  poor  boy  !■ — the  natural  effect 
Of  love  by  absence  chill’d  into  respect. 

Say,  what  accomplishments,  at  school  acquired, 
Brings  he,  to  sweeten  fruits  so  undesired? 

Thou  well  deservest  an  alienated  son, 

Unless  thy  conscious  heart  acknowledge — none; 
None  that,  in  thy  domestic  snug  recess, 

He  had  not  made  his  own  with  more  address, 
Though  some,  perhaps,  that  shock  thy  feeling  mind, 
And  better  never  learn’d,  or  left  behind. 

Add  too,  that  thus  estranged,  thou  canst  obtain 
By  no  kind  arts  his  confidence  again ; 

That  here  begins  with  most  that  long  complaint 
Of  filial  frankness  lost,  and  love  grown  faint, 

Which,  oft  neglected,  in  life’s  waning  years 
A parent  pours  into  regardless  ears. 


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203 


Like  caterpillars,  dangling  under  trees 
By  slender  threads,  and  swinging  in  the  breeze, 
Which  filthily  bewray  and  sore  disgrace 
The  boughs  in  which  are  bred  the  unseemly  race ; 
While  every  worm  industriously  weaves 
And  winds  his  web  about  the  rivell’d  leaves; 

So  numerous  are  the  follies  that  annoy 
The  mind  and  heart  of  every  sprightly  boy ; 
Imaginations  noxious  and  perverse, 

Which  admonition  can  alone  disperse. 

The  encroaching  nuisance  asks  a faithful  hand, 
Patient,  affectionate,  of  high  command, 

To  check  the  procreation  of  a breed 

Sure  to  exhaust  the  plant  on  which  they  feed. 

’Tis  not  enough  that  Greek  or  Roman  page, 

At  stated  hours,  his  freakish  thoughts  engage ; 

E’en  in  his  pastimes  he  requires  a friend, 

To  warn,  and  teach  him  safely  to  unbend; 

O’er  all  his  pleasures  gently  to  preside, 

Watch  his  emotions,  and  control  their  tide ; 

And  levying  thus,  and  with  an  easy  sway, 

A tax  of  profit  from  his  very  play, 

To  impress  a value,  not  to  be  erased, 

On  moments  squander’d  else,  and  running  all  to  waste. 
And  seems  it  nothing  in  a father’s  eye, 

That  unimproved  those  many  moments  fly  ? 

And  is  he  well  content  his  son  should  find 
No  nourishment  to  feed  his  growing  mind 
But  conjugated  verbs,  and  nouns  declined  ? 

For  such  is  all  the  mental  food  purvey’d 
By  public  hackneys  in  the  schooling  trade ; 

W’ho  feed  a pupil’s  intellect  with  store 
Of  syntax  truly,  but  with  little  more ; 


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tirocinium;  or, 


Dismiss  their  cares,  when  they  dismiss  their  flock, 
Machines  themselves,  and  govern’d  by  a clock. 
Perhaps  a father,  blest  with  any  brains, 

Would  deem  it  no  abuse,  or  waste  of  pains, 

To  improve  this  diet,  at  no  great  expense, 

With  savoury  truth  and  wholesome  common  sense  ; 
To  lead  his  son,  for  prospects  of  delight, 

To  some  not  steep  though  philosophic  height, 

Thence  to  exhibit  to  his  wondering  eyes 

Yon  circling  worlds,  their  distance,  and  their  size ; 

The  moons  of  Jove,  and  Saturn’s  belted  ball, 

And  the  harmonious  order  of  them  all ; 

To  show  him  in  an  insect  or  a flower 
Such  microscopic  proof  of  skill  and  power, 

As,  hid  from  ages  past,  God  now  displays, 

To  combat  atheists  with  in  modern  days ; 

To  spread  the  earth  before  him,  and  commend, 

With  designation  of  the  finger’s  end, 

Its  various  parts  to  his  attentive  note, 

Thus  bringing  home  to  him  the  most  remote ; 

To  teach  his  heart  to  glow  with  generous  flame, 
Caught  from  the  deeds  of  men  of  ancient  fame ; 

And,  more  than  all,  with  commendation  due, 

To  set  some  living  worthy  in  his  view, 

Whose  fair  example  may  at  once  inspire 
A wish  to  copy  what  he  must  admire. 

Such  knowledge  gain’d  betimes,  and  which  appears, 
Though  solid,  not  too  weighty  for  his  years, 

Sweet  in  itself,  and  not  forbidding  sport, 

When  health  demands  it,  of  athletic  sort, 

Would  make  him — what  some  lovely  boys  have  been, 
And  more  than  one,  perhaps,  that  I have  seen — 

An  evidence  and  reprehension  both 

Of  the  mere  schoolboy’s  lean  and  tardy  growth. 


A REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 

Art  thou  a man  professionally  tied, 

With  all  thy  faculties  elsewhere  applied, 

Too  busy  to  intend  a meaner  care, 

Than  how  to  enrich  thyself,  and  next  thine  heir ; 
Or  art  thou  (as,  though  rich,  perhaps  thou  art) 

But  poor  in  knowledge,  having  none  to  impart : — 
Behold  that  figure,  neat,  though  plainly  clad; 

His  sprightly  mingled  with  a shade  of  sad ; 

Not  of  a nimble  tongue,  though  now  and  then 
Heard  to  articulate  like  other  men ; 

No  jester,  and  yet  lively  in  discourse, 

His  phrase  well  chosen,  clear,  and  full  of  force ; 
And  his  address,  if  not  quite  French  in  ease, 

Not  English  stiff,  but  frank,  and  form’d  to  please; 
Low  in  the  world,  because  he  scorns  its  arts ; 

A man  of  letters,  manners,  morals,  parts ; 
Unpatronized,  and  therefore  little  known, 

Wise  for  himself  and  his  few  friends  alone — 

In  him  thy  well-appointed  proxy  see, 

Arm’d  for  a work  too  difficult  for  thee ; 

Prepared  by  taste,  by  learning,  and  true  worth, 

To  form  thy  son,  to  strike  his  genius  forth ; 
Beneath  thy  roof,  beneath  thine  eye,  to  prove 
The  force  of  discipline,  when  back’d  by  love  ; 

To  double  all  thy  pleasure  in  thy  child, 

His  mind  inform’d,  his  morals  undefiled. 

Safe  under  such  a wing,  the  boy  shall  show 
No  spots  contracted  among  grooms  below, 

Nor  taint  his  speech  with  meannesses,  design’d 
By  footman  Tom  for  witty  and  refined. 

There,  in  his  commerce  with  the  liveried  herd, 
Lurks  the  contagion  chiefly  to  be  fear’d ; 

For  since  (so  fashion  dictates)  all  who  claim 
A higher  than  a mere  plebeian  fame, 

18 


205 


206 


tirocinium;  or, 


Find  it  expedient,  come  what  mischief  may, 

To  entertain  a thief  or  two  in  pay, 

(And  they  that  can  afford  the  expense  of  more, 
Some  half  a dozen,  and  some  half  a score,) 

Great  cause  occurs  to  save  him  from  a band 
So  sure  to  spoil  him,  and  so  near  at  hand ; 

A point  secured,  if  once  he  be  supplied 
With  some  such  Mentor  always  at  his  side. 

Are  such  men  rare  ? perhaps  they  would  abound, 
Were  occupation  easier  to  be  found, 

Were  education,  else  so  sure  to  fail, 

Conducted  on  a manageable  scale, 

And  schools  that  have  outlived  all  just  esteem, 
Exchanged  for  the  secure  domestic  scheme — 

But,  having  found  him,  be  thou  Duke  or  Earl, 
Show  thou  hast  sense  enough  to  prize  the  pearl, 
And  as  thou  wouldst  the  advancement  of  thine  heir 
In  all  good  faculties  beneath  his  care, 

Respect,  as  is  but  rational  and  just, 

A man  deem’d  worthy  of  so  dear  a trust. 

Despised  by  thee,  what  more  can  he  expect 
From  youthful  folly  than  the  same  neglect  ? 

A flat  and  fatal  negative  obtains 
That  instant,  upon  all  his  future  pains ; 

His  lessons  tire,  his  mild  rebukes  offend, 

And  all  the  instructions  of  thy  son’s  best  friend 
Are  a stream  choked,  or  trickling  to  no  end. 

Doom  him  not,  then,  to  solitary  meals ; 

But  recollect  that  he  has  sense,  and  feels ; 

And  that,  possessor  of  a soul  refined, 

An  upright  heart,  and  cultivated  mind, 

His  post  not  mean,  his  talents  not  unknown, 

He  deems  it  hard  to  vegetate  alone. 


A REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 


207 


And,  if  admitted  at  thy  board  lie  sit, 

Account  him  no  just  mark  for  idle  wit ; 

Offend  not  him,  whom  modesty  restrains 
From  repartee,  with  jokes  that  he  disdains; 

Much  less  transfix  his  feelings  with  an  oath  ; 

Nor  frown  unless  he  vanish  with  the  cloth. 

And,  trust  me,  his  utility  may  reach 
To  more  than  he  is  hired  or  bound  to  teach ; 

Much  trash  unutter’d,  and  some  ills  undone, 

Through  reverence  of  the  censor  of  thy  son. 

But,  if  thy  table  be  indeed  unclean, 

Foul  with  excess,  and  with  discourse  obscene, 

And  thou  a wretch,  whom,  following  her  old  plan, 
The  world  accounts  an  honourable  man, 

Because,  forsooth,  thy  courage  has  been  tried 
And  stood  the  test,  perhaps  on  the  wrong  side ; 
Though  thou  hadst  never  grace  enough  to  prove 
That  anything  but  vice  could  win  thy  love  ; 

Or  hast  thou  a polite,  card-playing  wife, 

Chain’d  to  the  routs  that  she  frequents  for  life ; 

Who,  just  when  industry  begins  to  snore, 

Flies,  wing’d  with  joy,  to  some  coach-crowded  door; 
And  thrice  in  every  winter  throngs  thine  own 
With  half  the  chariots  and  sedans  in  town, 

Thyself  meanwhile,  e’en  shifting  as  thou  mayest, 

Not  very  sober  though,  nor  very  chaste; — 

Or  is  thine  house,  though  less  superb  thy  rank, 

If  not  a scene  of  pleasure,  a mere  blank, 

And  thou  at  best,  and  in  thy  soberest  mood, 

A trifler  vain,  and  empty  of  all  good  ; 

Though  mercy  for  thyself  thou  canst  have  none, 

Hear  Nature  plead,  show  mercy  to  thy  son. 

Saved  from  his  home,  where  every  day  brings  forth 
Some  mischief  fatal  to  his  future  worth, 


208 


tirocinium;  or, 


Find  him  a better  in  a distant  spot, 

Within  some  pious  pastor’s  humble  cot, 

Where  vile  example  (yours  I chiefly  mean, 

The  most  seducing,  and  the  oftenest  seen) 

May  never  more  be  stamp’d  upon  his  breast, 

Not  yet,  perhaps,  incurably  impress’d  : 

Where  early  rest  makes  early  rising  sure, 

Disease  or  comes  not,  or  finds  easy  cure, 
Prevented  much  by  diet  neat  and  plain ; 

Or,  if  it  enter,  soon  starved  out  again : 

Where  all  the  attention  of  his  faithful  host, 
Discreetly  limited  to  two  at  most, 

May  raise  such  fruits  as  shall  reward  his  care, 
And  not  at  last  evaporate  in  air : 

Where  stillness  aiding  study,  and  his  mind 
Serene,  and  to  his  duties  much  inclined, 

Not  occupied  in  day-dreams,  as  at  home, 

Of  pleasures  past,  or  follies  yet  to  come, 

His  virtuous  toil  may  terminate  at  last 
In  settled  habit  and  decided  taste. 

But  whom  do  I advise  ? The  fashion-led, 

The  incorrigibly  wrong,  the  deaf,  the  dead, 

Whom  care  and  cool  deliberation  suit 
Not  better  much  than  spectacles  a brute; 

Who,  if  their  sons  some  slight  tuition  share, 
Deem  it  of  no  great  moment  whose,  or  where ; 
Too  proud  to  adopt  the  thoughts  of  one  unknown, 
And  much  too  gay  to  have  any  of  their  own. 

But  courage,  man  ! methought  the  Muse  replied, 
Mankind  are  various,  and  the  world  is  wide : 

The  ostrich,  silliest  of  the  feather’d  kind, 

And  form’d  of  God  without  a parent’s  mind, 
Commits  her  eggs,  incautious,  to  the  dust, 
Forgetful  that  the  foot  may  crush  the  trust; 


A REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 


209 


And,  while  on  public  nurseries  they  rely, 

Not  knowing,  and  too  oft  not  caring,  why, 

Irrational  in  what  they  thus  prefer, 

No  few,  that  would  seem  wise,  resemble  her. 

But  all  are  not  alike.  Thy  warning  voice 
May  here  and  there  prevent  erroneous  choice ; 

And  some,  perhaps,  who,  busy  as  they  are, 

Yet  make  their  progeny  their  dearest  care, 

(Whose  hearts  will  ache,  once  told  what  ills  may  reach 
Their  offspring,  left  upon  so  wild  a beach,) 

Will  need  no  stress  of  argument  to  enforce 
The  expedience  of  a less  adventurous  course : 

The  rest  will  slight  thy  counsel,  or  condemn ; 

But  they  have  human  feelings — turn  to  them. 

To  you,  then,  tenants  of  life’s  middle  state, 

Securely  placed  between  the  small  and  great, 

Whose  character,  yet  undebauch’d,  retains 
Two-thirds  of  all  the  virtue  that  remains, 

Who,  wise  yourselves,  desire  your  son  should  learn 
Your  wisdom  and  your  ways — to  you  I turn. 

Look  round  you  on  a world  perversely  blind ; 

See  what  contempt  is  fallen  on  humankind ; 

See  wealth  abused,  and  dignities  misplaced, 

Great  titles,  offices,  and  trusts,  disgraced, 

Long  lines  of  ancestry  renown’d  of  old, 

Their  noble  qualities  all  quench’d  and  cold; 

See  Bedlam’s  closeted  and  handcuff’d  charge 
Surpass’d  in  frenzy  by  the  mad  at  large; 

See  great  commanders  making  war  a trade, 

Great  lawyers,  lawyers  without  study  made ; 
Churchmen,  in  whose  esteem  their  best  employ 
Is  odious,  and  their  wages  all  their  joy; 

Who,  far  enough  from  furnishing  their  shelves 
With  Gospel  lore,  turn  infidels  themselves  ; 

18* 


210 


tirocinium;  or, 


See  womanhood  despised,  and  manhood  shamed 
With  infamy  too  nauseous  to  be  named, 

Fops  at  ail  corners,  ladylike  in  mien, 

Civeted  fellows,  smelt  ere  they  are  seen, 

Else  coarse  and  rude  in  manners,  and  their  tongue 
On  fire  with  curses  and  with  nonsense  hung, 

Now  flush’d  with  drunk’ness,  now  with  whoredom  pale, 
Their  breath  a sample  of  last  night’s  regale ; 

See  volunteers  in  all  the  vilest  arts, 

Men  well-endow’d,  of  honourable  parts, 

Design’d  by  Nature  wise,  but  self-made  fools; 

All  these,  and  more  like  these,  were  bred  at  schools. 
And  if  it  chance,  as  sometimes  chance  it  will, 

That  though  school-bred,  the  boy  be  virtuous  still ; 
Such  rare  exceptions,  shining  in  the  dark, 

Prove,  rather  than  impeach,  the  just  remark: 

As  here  and  there  a twinkling  star  descried 
Serves  but  to  show  how  black  is  all  beside. 

Now  look  on  him  whose  very  voice  in  tone 
Just  echoes  thine,  whose  features  are  thine  own, 

And  stroke  his  polish’d  cheek  of  purest  red, 

And  lay  thine  hand  upon  his  flaxen  head, 

And  say,  My  boy,  the  unwelcome  hour  is  come, 

When  thou,  transplanted  from  thy  genial  home, 

Must  find  a colder  soil  and  bleaker  air, 

And  trust  for  safety  to  a stranger’s  care : 

What  character,  what  turn  thou  wilt  assume 
From  constant  converse  with  I know  not  whom ; 

Who  there  will  court  thy  friendship,  with  what  views, 
And,  artless  as  thou  art,  whom  thou  wilt  choose, 
Though  much  depends  on  what  thy  choice  shall  be, 

Is  all  chance-medley,  and  unknown  to  me. 

Canst  thou,  the  tear  just  trembling  on  thy  lids, 

And  while  the  dreadful  risk,  foreseen,  forbids — 


A REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 


211 


Free  too,  and  under  no  constraining  force, 

Unless  the  sway  of  custom  warp  thy  course— 

Lay  such  a stake  upon  the  losing  side, 

Merely  to  gratify  so  blind  a guide  ? 

Thou  canst  not!  Nature,  pulling  at  thine  heart, 
Condemns  the  unfatherly,  the  imprudent  part. 

Thou  wouldst  not,  deaf  to  Nature’s  tenderest  plea, 
Turn  him  adrift  upon  a rolling  sea, 

Nor  say,  Go  thither , conscious  that  there  lay 
A brood  of  asps,  or  quicksands,  in  his  way; 

Then,  only  govern’d  by  the  self-same  rule 
Of  natural  pity,  send  him  not  to  school. 

No — guard  him  better.  Is  he  not  thine  own, 
Thyself  in  miniature,  thy  flesh,  thy  bone  ? 

And  hopest  thou  not  (’tis  every  father’s  hope) 

That,  since  thy  strength  must  with  thy  years  elope, 
And  thou  wilt  need  some  comfort,  to  assuage 
Health’s  last  farewell,  a staff  of  thine  old  age, 

That  then,  in  recompense  of  all  thy  cares, 

Thy  child  shall  show  respect  to  thy  grey  hairs, 
Befriend  thee,  of  all  other  friends  bereft, 

And  give  thy  life  its  only  cordial  left? 

Aware,  then,  how  much  danger  intervenes, 

To  compass  that  good  end,  forecast  the  means. 

His  heart,  now  passive,  yields  to  thy  command ; 
Secure  it  thine ; its  key  is  in  thine  hand. 

If  thou  desert  thy  charge,  and  throw  it  wide, 

Nor  heed  what  guests  there  enter  and  abide, 
Complain  not  if  attachments  lewd  and  base 
Supplant  thee  in  it,  and  usurp  thy  place. 

But,  if  thou  guard  its  sacred  chambers  sure 
From  vicious  inmates,  and  delights  impure, 

Either  his  gratitude  shall  hold  him  fast, 

And  keep  him  warm  and  filial  to  the  last; 


12 


TIROCINIUM. 


Or,  if  he  prove  unkind,  (as  who  can  say 
But,  being  man,  and  therefore  frail,  he  may,) 

One  comfort  yet  shall  cheer  thine  aged  heart, 

Howe’er  he  slight  thee,  thou  hast  done  thy  part. 

Oh  barbarous  ! wouldst  thou  with  a Gothic  hand 
Pull  down  the  schools — what ! — all  the  schools  i’  the 
Or  throw  them  up  to  livery-nags  and  grooms,  [land? 
Or  turn  them  into  shops  and  auction-rooms  ? 

— A captious  question,  Sir,  (and  yours  is  one,) 
Deserves  an  answer  similar,  or  none. 

Wouldst  thou,  possessor  of  a flock,  employ 
(Apprized  that  he  is  such)  a careless  boy, 

And  feed  him  well,  and  give  him  handsome  pay, 
Merely  to  sleep,  and  let  them  run  astray? 

Survey  our  schools  and  colleges,  and  see 
A sight  not  much  unlike  my  simile. 

From  education,  as  the  leading  cause, 

The  public  character  its  colour  draws ; 

Thence  the  prevailing  manners  take  their  cast, 
Extravagant  or  sober,  loose  or  chaste. 

And,  though  I would  not  advertise  them  yet, 

Nor  write  on  each — This  Building  to  be  let , 

Unless  the  world  were  all  prepared  to  embrace 
A plan  well  worthy  to  supply  their  place ; 

Yet,  backward  as  they  are,  and  long  have  been, 

To  cultivate  and  keep  the  morals  clean, 

(Forgive  the  crime)  I wish  them,  I confess, 

Or  better  managed,  or  encouraged  less. 


YARDLEY  OAK. 


[1791.] 

Survivor  sole,  and  hardly  such,  of  all 

That  once  lived  here,  thy  brethren,  at  my  birth, 

(Since  which  I number  threescore  winters  past,) 

A shatter’d  veteran,  hollo w-trunk’d,  perhaps, 

As  now,  and  with  excoriate  forks  deform, 

Relics  of  ages  ! could  a mind,  imbued 
With  truth  from  Heaven,  created  thing  adore, 

I might  with  reverence  kneel,  and  worship  thee. 

It  seems  idolatry  with  some  excuse, 

When  our  forefather  Druids  in  their  oaks 
Imagined  sanctity.  The  conscience,  yet 
Unpurified  by  an  authentic  act 
Of  amnesty,  the  meed  of  blood  divine, 

Loved  not  the  light,  but,  gloomy,  into  gloom 
Of  thickest  shades,  like  Adam  after  taste 
Of  fruit  proscribed,  as  to  a refuge,  fled. 

Thou  wast  a bauble  once,  a cup  and  ball 
Which  babes  might  play  with ; and  the  thievish  Jay, 
Seeking  her  food,  with  ease  might  have  purloin’d 
The  auburn  nut  that  held  thee,  swallowing  down 
Thy  yet  close-folded  latitude  of  boughs 
And  all  thine  embryo  vastness  at  a gulp. 

But  Fate  thy  growth  decreed ; autumnal  rains 
Beneath  thy  parent  tree  mellow’d  the  soil 
Design’d  thy  cradle ; and  a skipping  Deer, 

With  pointed  hoof  dibbling  the  glebe,  prepared 
The  soft  receptacle,  in  which,  secure, 

Thy  rudiments  should  sleep  the  winter  through. 

213 


214 


YARDLEY  OAK. 


So  Fancy  dreams.  Disprove  it,  if  ye  can, 

Ye  reasoners  broad  awake,  whose  busy  search 
Of  argument,  employ’d  too  oft  amiss, 

Sifts  half  the  pleasure  of  short  life  away ! 

Thou  fell’st  mature  ; and,  in  the  loamy  clod 
Swelling  with  vegetative  force  extinct, 

Didst  burn  thine  egg,  as  theirs  the  fabled  Twins, 

Now  stars;  two  lobes,  protruding,  pair’d  exact; 

A leaf  succeeded,  and  another  leaf, 

And,  all  the  elements  thy  puny  growth 
Fostering  propitious,  thou  becamest  a twig. 

Who  lived  when  thou  wast  such  ? Oh ! couldst  thou 
As  in  Dodona  once  thy  kindred  trees  [speak, 

Oracular,  I would  not  curious  ask 
The  future,  best  unknown,  but,  at  thy  mouth 
Inquisitive,  the  less  ambiguous  past. 

By  thee  I might  correct,  erroneous  oft, 

The  clock  of  history,  facts  and  events 
Timing  more  punctual,  unrecorded  facts 
Recovering,  and  mis-stated  setting  right: — 

Desperate  attempt,  till  trees  shall  speak  again ! 

Time  made  thee  what  thou  wast,  king  of  the  woods ; 
And  Time  hath  made  thee  what  thou  art — a cave 
For  owls  to  roost  in.  Once  thy  spreading  boughs 
O’erhung  the  champaign;  and  the  numerous  flocks 
That  grazed  it  stood  beneath  that  ample  cope 
Uncrowded,  yet  safe  shelter’d  from  the  storm. 

No  flock  frequents  thee  now.  Thou  hast  outlived 
Thy  popularity,  and  art  become 
(Unless  verse  rescue  thee  awhile)  a thing 
Forgotten,  as  the  foliage  of  thy  youth. 

While  thus  through  all  the  stages  thou  hast  push’d 
Of  treeship — first  a seedling,  hid  in  grass ; 

Then  twig ; then  sapling ; and,  as  century  roll’d 


YARDLEY  OAK. 


215 


Slow  after  century,  a giant-bulk 
Of  girth  enormous,  with  moss-cushion’d  root 
Upheaved  above  the  soil,  and  sides  emboss’d 
With  prominent  wens  globose — till,  at  the  last, 

The  rottenness  which  Time  is  charged  to  inflict 
On  other  mighty  ones  found  also  thee. 

What  exhibitions  various  hath  the  world 
Witness’d  of  mutability  in  all 
That  we  account  most  durable  below  ! 

Change  is  the  diet  on  which  all  subsist, 

Created  changeable,  and  change,  at  last, 

Destroys  them.  Skies  uncertain  now  the  heat 
Transmitting  cloudless,  and  the  solar  beam 
Now  quenching  in  a boundless  sea  of  clouds — 

Calm  and  alternate  storm,  moisture  and  drought, 
Invigorate  by  turns  the  springs  of  life 
In  all  that  live — plant,  animal,  and  man, 

And  in  conclusion  mar  them.  Nature’s  threads, 

Fine  passing  thought,  e’en  in  her  coarsest  works, 

Delight  in  agitation,  yet  sustain 

The  force  that  agitates  not  unimpair’d  ; 

But,  worn  by  frequent  impulse,  to  the  cause 
Of  their  best  tone  their  dissolution  owe. 

Thought  cannot  spend  itself,  comparing  still 
The  great  and  little  of  thy  lot,  thy  growth 
From  almost  nullity  into  a state 
Of  matchless  grandeur,  and  declension  thence, 

Slow,  into  such  magnificent  decay. 

Time  was,  when,  settling  on  thy  leaf,  a fly 
Could  shake  thee  to  the  root — and  time  has  been 
When  tempests  could  not.  At  thy  firmest  age 
Thou  hadst,  within  thy  bole,  solid  contents 
That  might  have  ribb’d  the  sides  and  plank’d  the  deck 
Of  some  flagg’d  admiral ; and  tortuous  arms, 


216 


YARPLEY  OAK. 


The  shipwright’s  darling  treasure,  didst  present 
To  the  four-quarter’d  winds,  robust  and  bold, 

Warp’d  into  tough  knee-timber  many  a load!* 

But  the  axe  spared  thee.  In  those  thriftier  days 
Oaks  fell  not,  hewn  by  thousands,  to  supply 
The  bottomless  demands  of  contest  waged 
For  senatorial  honours.  Thus  to  Time 
The  task  was  left  to  whittle  thee  away 
With  his  sly  scythe,  whose  ever-nibbling  edge, 
Noiseless,  an  atom,  and  an  atom  more, 

Disjoining  from  the  rest,  has,  unobserved, 

Achieved  a labour  which  had,  far  and  wide, 

By  man  perform’d,  made  all  the  forest  ring. 

Embowell’d  now,  and  of  thy  ancient  self 
Possessing  nought  but  the  scoop’d  rind,  that  seems 
• An  huge  throat  calling  to  the  clouds  for  drink, 

Which  it  would  give  in  rivulets  to  thy  root, 

Thou  temptest  none,  but  rather  much  forbidd’st 
The  feller’s  toil,  which  thou  couldst  ill  requite. 

Yet  is  thy  root  sincere,  sound  as  the  rock, 

A quarry  of  stout  spurs  and  knotted  fangs, 

Which,  crook’d  into  a thousand  whimsies,  clasp 
The  stubborn  soil,  and  hold  thee  still  erect. 

So  stands  a kingdom,  whose  foundation  yet 
Fails  not,  in  virtue  and  in  wisdom  laid, 

Though  all  the  superstructure,  by  the  tooth 

Pulverised  of  venality,  a shell 

Stands  now,  and  semblance  only  of  itself! 

Thine  arms  have  left  thee.  Winds  have  rent  them  off 
Long  since,  and  rovers  of  the  forest  wild, 

With  bow  and  shaft,  have  burnt  them.  Some  have  left 

* Knee-timber  is  found  in  the  crooked  arms  of  oak,  which,  by 
reason  of  their  distortion,  are  easily  adjusted  to  the  angle  formed 
where  the  deck  and  the  ship’s  sides  meet. 


YARDLEY  OAK. 


21 


A splinter’d  stump,  bleach’d  to  a snowy  white ; 

And  some,  memorial  none  where  once  they  grew. 
Yet  life  still  lingers  in  thee,  and  puts  forth 
Proof  not  contemptible  of  what  she  can, 

Even  where  death  predominates.  The  spring 
Finds  thee  not  less  alive  to  her  sweet  force 
Than  yonder  upstarts  of  the  neighbouring  wood, 

So  much  thy  juniors,  who  their  birth  received 
Half  a millennium  since  the  date  of  thine. 

But  since,  although  well  qualified  by  age 
To  teach,  no  spirit  dwells  in  thee,  nor  voice 
May  be  expected  from  thee,  seated  here 
On  thy  distorted  root,  with  hearers  none, 

Or  prompter,  save  the  scene,  I will  perform, 

Myself  the  oracle,  and  will  discourse 
In  my  own  ear  such  matter  as  I may. 

One  man  alone,  the  father  of  us  all, 

Drew  not  his  life  from  woman ; never  gazed, 

With  mute  unconsciousness  of  what  he  saw, 

On  all  around  him  ; learn’ d not  by  degrees, 

Nor  owed  articulation  to  his  ear  ; 

But,  moulded  by  his  Maker  into  man 
At  once,  upstood  intelligent,  survey’d 
All  creatures,  with  precision  understood 
Their  purport ; uses,  properties,  assign’d 
To  each  his  name  significant,  and,  fill’d 
With  love  and  wisdom,  render’d  back  to  Heaven 
In  praise  harmonious  the  first  air  he  drew. 

He  was  excused  the  penalties  of  dull 
Minority.  No  tutor  charged  his  hand 
With  the  thought-tracing  quill,  or  task’d  his  mind 
With  problems.  History,  not  wanted  yet, 

Lean’d  on  her  elbow,  watching  Time,  whose  course, 
Eventful,  should  supply  her  with  a theme. 

19 


218 


SONNET, 

ADDRESSED  TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESQ. 
[June  2,  1792.] 

Hayley — thy  tenderness  fraternal  shown 
In  our  first  interview,  delightful  guest ! 

To  Mary,  and  me  for  her  dear  sake  distress’d, 
Such  as  it  is  has  made  my  heart  thy  own, 

Though  heedless  now  of  new  engagements  grown; 
For  threescore  winters  make  a wintry  breast, 
And  I had  purposed  ne’er  to  go  in  quest 
Of  Friendship  more,  except  with  God  alone. 

But  thou  hast  won  me  ; nor  is  God  my  foe, 
Who,  ere  this  last  afflictive  scene  began, 

Sent  thee  to  mitigate  the  dreadful  blow, 

My  brother,  by  whose  sympathy  I know 
Thy  true  deserts  infallibly  to  scan, 

Not  more  to  admire  the  Bard  than  love  the  man. 


ON  THE 

RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTHER’S  PICTURE, 
OUT  OF  NORFOLK, 

THE  GIFT  OF  MY  COUSIN  ANN  BODHAM. 

O that  those  lips  had  language ! Life  has  pass’d 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I heard  thee  last. 

Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  I see, 
The  same,  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me ; 


MY  MOTHER’S  PICTURE. 


219 


Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 

“ Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away !” 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 

The  art  that  baffles  Time’s  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrance  of  one  so  dear, 

0 welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here  ! 

Who  bidd’st  me  honour  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a Mother  lost  so  long. 

1 will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  : 

And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 

Fancy  shall  weave  a charm  for  my  relief, 

Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 

A momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  Mother!  when  I learn’d  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I shed  ? 
Hover’d  thy  spirit  o’er  thy  sorrowing  son, 

Wretch  even  then,  life’s  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a kiss ; 
Perhaps  a tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 

Ah  that  maternal  smile!  it  answers — Yes. 

I heard  the  bell  toll’d  on  thy  burial  day, 

I saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 

And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a last  adieu! 

But  was  it  such  ? — It  was. — Where  thou  art  gone, 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a sound  unknown. 

May  I but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 

The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more ! 

Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 


22  0 


MY  MOTHER’S  PICTURE. 


What  ardently  I wish’d,  I long  believed, 

And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 

By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 

Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a child. 

Thus  many  a sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 

Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 

I learn’d  at  last  submission  to  my  lot ; 

But,  though  I less  deplored  thee,  ne’er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 

And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 

Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 

Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapt 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet-capt, 

’Tis  now  become  a history  little  known, 

That  once  we  call’d  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Shortlived  possession  ! but  the  record  fair, 

That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 

Still  outlives  many  a storm,  that  has  effaced 
A thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 

Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 

That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid ; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I left  my  home, 

The  biscuit,  or  confectionary  plum ; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow’d 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glow’d  ; 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 

Ne’er  roughen’d  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 
That  humour,  interposed,  too  often  makes ; 

All  this  still  legible  in  memory’s  page, 

And  still  to  be  so  io  my  latest  age, 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may; 


"Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 

That  thou  mights!  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid;" 


UHMW 

Qf 


MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 


221 


Perhaps  a frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Not  scorn’d  in  Heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours, 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture’s  tissued  flowers, 

The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 

I prick’d  them  into  paper  with  a pin, 

(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head,  and  smile,) 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I wish  them  here  ? 
I would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I might. 

But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 

So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 

That  I should  ill  requite  thee,  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a gallant  bark  from  Albion’s  coast 
(The  storms  all  weather’d  and  the  ocean  cross’d) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven’d  isle, 

Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 

While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay ; 

So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift ! hast  reach’d  the  shore, 
“ Where  tempests  never  beat,  nor  billows  roar,”* 

And  thy  loved  Consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchor’d  by  thy  side. 

But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 

Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distress’d — 

Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-toss’d, 

Sails  ripp’d,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost, 
And  day  by  day  some  current’s  thwarting  force 
* Garth. 

19* 


222  AN  EPISTLE  TO  A LADY  IN  FRANCE. 

Sets  me  more  distant  from  a prosperous  course. 
Yet  O the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he  ! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 
The  son  of  parents  pass’d  into  the  skies. 

And  now,  farewell — Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I wish’d  is  done. 
By  contemplation’s  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 

I seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o’er  again ; 
To  have  renew’d  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine; 

And,  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 

Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — : 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 


AN  EPISTLE 

TO  AN  AFFLICTED  PROTESTANT  LADY  IN  FRANCE. 

Madam, 

A stranger’s  purpose  in  these  lays 
Is  to  congratulate,  and  not  to  praise. 

To  give  the  creature  the  Creator’s  due 
Were  sin  in  me,  and  an  offence  to  you. 

From  man  to  man,  or  e’en  to  woman  paid, 

Praise  is  the  medium  of  a knavish  trade, 

A coin  by  Craft  for  Folly’s  use  design’d, 

Spurious,  and  only  current  with  the  blind. 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  A LADY  IN  FRANCE.  223 


The  path  of  sorrow,  and  that  path  alone 
Leads  to  the  land  where  sorrow  is  unknown : 

No  traveller  e’er  reach’d  that  blest  abode, 

Who  found  not  thorns  and  briers  in  his  road. 

The  world  may  dance  along  the  flowery  plain, 
Cheer’d  as  they  go  by  many  a sprightly  strain ; 
Where  Nature  has  her  mossy  velvet  spread, 

With  unshod  feet  they  yet  securely  tread, 
Admonish’d,  scorn  the  caution  and  the  friend, 

Bent  all  on  pleasure,  heedless  of  its  end. 

But  He,  who  knew  what  human  hearts  would  prove, 
How  slow  to  learn  the  dictates  of  His  love, 

That,  hard  by  nature,  and  of  stubborn  will, 

A life  of  ease  would  make  them  harder  still, 

In  pity  to  the  souls  His  grace  design’d 
To  rescue  from  the  ruins  of  mankind, 

Call’d  for  a cloud  to  darken  all  their  years, 

And  said,  “ Go,  spend  them  in  a vale  of  tears.” 

O balmy  gales  of  soul-reviving  air  ! 

O salutary  streams,  that  murmur  there  ! 

These  flowing  from  the  fount  of  grace  above, 

Those  breathed  from  lips  of  everlasting  love. 

The  flinty  soil,  indeed,  their  feet  annoys ; 

Chill  blasts  of  trouble  nip  their  springing  joys ; 

An  envious  world  will  interpose  its  frown, 

To  mar  delights  superior  to  its  own ; 

And  many  a pang,  experienced  still  within, 

Reminds  them  of  their  hated  inmate,  Sin: 

But  ills  of  every  shape  and  every  name, 

Transform’d  to  blessings,  miss  their  cruel  aim ; 

And  every  moment’s  calm  that  soothes  the  breast, 

Is  given  in  earnest  of  eternal  rest. 

Ah,  be  not  sad,  although  thy  lot  be  cast 
Far  from  the  flock,  and  in  a boundless  waste! 


224  TO  THE  REV.  W.  CAWTHORNE  UNWIN. 


No  shepherd’s  tents  within  thy  view  appear, 

But  the  chief  Shepherd  even  there  is  near; 

Thy  tender  sorrows  and  thy  plaintive  strain 
Flow  in  a foreign  land,  but  not  in  vain ; 

Thy  tears  all  issue  from  a source  divine, 

And  every  drop  bespeaks  a Saviour  thine. 

So  once  in  Gideon’s  fleece  the  dews  were  found, 
And  drought  on  all  the  drooping  herbs  around. 


TO  THE 

REV.  W.  CAWTHORNE  UNWIN. 

Unwin,  I should  but  ill  repay 
The  kindness  of  a friend, 

Whose  worth  deserves  as  warm  a lay 
As  ever  friendship  penn’d, 

Thy  name  omitted  in  a page 
That  would  reclaim  a vicious  age. 

A union  form’d,  as  mine  with  thee, 

Not  rashly,  nor  in  sport, 

May  be  as  fervent  in  degree, 

And  faithful  in  its  sort, 

And  may  as  rich  in  comfort  prove, 

As  that  of  true  fraternal  love. 

The  bud  inserted  in  the  rind, 

The  bud  of  peach  or  rose, 

Adorns,  though  differing  in  its  kind, 

The  stock  whereon  it  grows, 

With  flower  as  sweet,  or  fruit  as  fair, 

As  if  produced  by  Nature  there. 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESQ.  225 

Not  rich,  I render  what  I may, 

I seize  thy  name  in  haste, 

And  place  it  in  this  first  essay, 

Lest  this  should  prove  the  last. 

’Tis  where  it  should  be — in  a plan 
That  holds  in  view  the  good  of  man. 

The  poet’s  lyre,  to  fix  his  fame, 

Should  be  the  poet’s  heart ; 

Affection  lights  a brighter  flame 
Than  ever  blazed  by  art. 

No  Muses  on  these  lines  attend ; 

I sink  the  Poet  in  the  friend. 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESQ. 

Dear  Joseph — five  and  twenty  years  ago — 

Alas ! how  time  escapes ’tis  even  so — 

With  frequent  intercourse,  and  always  sweet 
And  always  friendly,  we  were  wont  to  cheat 
A tedious  hour — and  now  we  never  meet ! 

As  some  grave  gentleman  in  Terence  says, 

(’Twas,  therefore,  much  the  same  in  ancient  days,) 
Good  lack  ! we  know  not  what  to-morrow  brings — 
Strange  fluctuation  of  all  human  things  ! 

True.  Changes  will  befall,  and  friends  may  part, 
But  distance  only  cannot  change  the  heart: 

And,  were  I call’d  to  prove  the  assertion  true, 

One  proof  should  serve — a reference  to  you. 

Whence  comes  it,  then,  that  in  the  wane  of  life, 
Though  nothing  have  occurr’d  to  kindle  strife, 


226  AN  EPISTLE  TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESQ. 

We  find  the  friends  we  fancied  we  had  won, 

Though  numerous  once,  reduced  to  few  or  none  ? 
Can  gold  grow  worthless  that  has  stood  the  touch  ? 
No ; gold  they  seem’d,  but  they  were  never  such. 

Horatio’s  servant  once,  with  bow  and  cringe, 
Swinging  the  parlour-door  upon  its  hinge, 

Dreading  a negative,  and  overawed 

Lest  he  should  trespass,  begg’d  to  go  abroad. 

Go,  fellow! — whither? — turning  short  about — 

Nay,  stay  at  home,  you’re  always  going  out. 

’Tis  but  a step,  Sir,  just  at  the  street’s  end. — 

For  what? — An’t  please  you,  Sir,  to  see  a friend.— 
A friend!  Horatio  cried,  and  seem’d  to  start — 

Yea  marry  shalt  thou,  and  with  all  my  heart — 

And  fetch  my  cloak ; for  though  the  night  be  raw, 

I’ll  see  him  too — the  first  I ever  saw. 

I knew  the  man,  and  knew  his  nature  mild, 

And  was  his  plaything  often  when  a child  ; 

But  somewhat  at  that  moment  pinch’d  him  close, 

Else  he  was  seldom  bitter  or  morose. 

Perhaps  his  confidence  just  then  betray’d, 

His  grief  might  prompt  him  with  the  speech  he  made 
Perhaps  ’twas  mere  good  humour  gave  it  birth, 

The  harmless  play  of  pleasantry  and  mirth. 

Howe’er  it  was,  his  language,  in  my  mind, 

Bespoke  at  least  a man  that  knew  mankind. 

But  not  to  moralize  too  much,  and  strain 
To  prove  an  evil  of  which  all  complain, 

(I  hate  long  arguments  verbosely  spun,) 

One  story  more,  dear  Hill,  and  I have  done. 

Once  on  a time  an  emperor,  a wise  man, 

No  matter  where,  in  China  or  Japan, 

Decreed  that  whosoever  should  offend 
Against  the  well-known  duties  of  a friend, 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  NEWTON. 


Convicted  once  should  ever  after  wear 
But  half  a coat,  and  show  his  bosom  bare. 

The  punishment  importing  this,  no  doubt, 

That  all  was  naught  within,  and  all  found  out. 

O happy  Britain ! we  have  not  to  fear 
Such  hard  and  arbitrary  measure  here ; 

Else,  could  a law,  like  that  which  I relate, 

Once  have  the  sanction  of  our  triple  state, 

Some  few,  that  I have  known  in  days  of  old, 
Would  run  most  dreadful  risk  of  catching  cold ; 
While  you,  my  friend,  whatever  wind  should  blow, 
Might  traverse  England  safely  to  and  fro, 

An  honest  man,  close-button’ d to  the  chin, 
Broad-cloth  without,  and  a warm  heart  within. 


TO  THE  REY.  MR.  NEWTON. 

AN  INVITATION  INTO  THE  COUNTRY. 

The  swallows  in  their  torpid  state 
Compose  their  useless  wing, 

And  bees  in  hives  as  idly  wait 
The  call  of  early  Spring. 

The  keenest  frost  that  binds  the  stream, 
The  wildest  wind  that  blows, 

Are  neither  felt  nor  fear’d  by  them, 
Secure  of  their  repose. 


228  ON  RECEIVING  HAYLEY’s  PICTURE. 

But  man,  all  feeling  and  awake, 

The  gloomy  scene  surveys ; 

With  present  ills  his  heart  must  ache, 
And  pant  for  brighter  days. 

Old  Winter,  halting  o’er  the  mead, 

Bids  me  and  Mary  mourn ; 

But  lovely  Spring  peeps  o’er  his  head, 
And  whispers  your  return. 

Then  April,  with  her  sister  May, 

Shall  chase  him  from  the  bowers, 

And  weave  fresh  garlands  every  day, 
To  crown  the  smiling  hours. 

And  if  a tear,  that  speaks  regret 
Of  happier  times,  appear, 

A glimpse  of  joy,  that  we  have  met, 
Shall  shine  and  dry  the  tear. 


ON  RECEIVING  HAYLEY’S  PICTURE. 

[January,  1793.] 

In  language  warm  as  could  be  breathed  or  penn’d, 
Thy  picture  speaks  the  original  my  friend ; 

Not  by  those  looks  that  indicate  thy  mind — 

They  only  speak  thee  friend  of  all  mankind ; 
Expression  here  more  soothing  still  I see, 

That  friend  of  all  a partial  friend  to  me . 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UHlVEftSm  W ILUHW* 


* 


* 


"The  last  evening  ramble  we  made. 
Gatharina,  Maria,  and  I " 


229 


CATHARINA. 

ADDRESSED  TO  MISS  STAPLETON,  (NOW  MRS.  COURTNEY.) 

She  came — she  is  gone — we  have  met — 

And  meet,  perhaps,  never  again ; 

The  sun  of  that  moment  is  set, 

And  seems  to  have  risen  in  vain. 

Catharina  has  fled  like  a dream — 

(So  vanishes  pleasure,  alas  !) 

But  has  left  a regret  and  esteem 
That  will  not  so  suddenly  pass. 

The  last  evening  ramble  we  made, 

Catharina,  Maria,  and  I, 

Our  progress  was  often  delay’d 
By  the  Nightingale  warbling  nigh. 

We  paused  under  many  a tree, 

And  much  was  she  charm’d  with  a tone 

Less  sweet  to  Maria  and  me, 

Who  so  lately  had  witness’d  her  own. 

My  numbers  that  day  she  had  sung, 

And  gave  them  a grace  so  divine 

As  only  her  musical  tongue 

Could  infuse  into  numbers  of  mine. 

The  longer  I heard,  I esteem’d 
The  work  of  my  fancy  the  more, 

And  e’en  to  myself  never  seem’d 
So  tuneful  a Poet  before. 

Though  the  pleasures  of  London  exceed 
In  number  the  days  of  the  year, 

Catharina,  did  nothing  impede, 

Would  feel  herself  happier  here ; 

20 


230 


CATHARINA. 

For  the  close-woven  arches  of  limes 
On  the  banks  of  our  river,  I know, 

Are  sweeter  to  her  many  times 

Than  aught  that  the  city  can  show. 

So  it  is  when  the  mind  is  endued 

With  a well-judging  taste  from  above, 
Then,  whether  embellish’d  or  rude, 

’Tis  Nature  alone  that  we  love. 

The  achievements  of  art  may  amuse, 

May  even  our  wonder  excite, 

But  groves,  hills,  and  valleys,  diffuse 
A lasting,  a sacred  delight. 

Since,  then,  in  the  rural  recess 
Catharina  alone  can  rejoice, 

May  it  still  be  her  lot  to  possess 
The  scene  of  her  sensible  choice ! 

To  inhabit  a mansion  remote 

From  the  clatter  of  street-pacing  steeds, 
And  by  Philomel’s  annual  note 
To  measure  the  life  that  she  leads. 

With  her  book,  and  her  voice,  and  her  lyre, 
To  wing  all  her  moments  at  home, 

And  with  scenes  that  new  rapture  inspire, 
As  oft  as  it  suits  her  to  roam, 

She  will  have  just  the  life  she  prefers, 

With  little  to  hope  or  to  fear; 

And  ours  would  be  pleasant  as  hers, 

Might  we  view  her  enjoying  it  here. 


231 


THE  MORALIZER  CORRECTED. 

A TALE. 

A hermit,  (or  if  ’chance  you  hold 
That  title  now  too  trite  and  old,) 

A man,  once  young,  who  lived  retired 
As  hermit  could  have  well  desired, 

His  hours  of  study  closed  at  last, 

And  finish’d  his  concise  repast, 

Stoppled  his  cruse,  replaced  his  book 
Within  its  customary  nook, 

And,  staff  in  hand,  set  forth  to  share 
The  sober  cordial  of  sweet  air, 

Like  Isaac,  with  a mind  applied 
To  serious  thought  at  evening-tide. 
Autumnal  rains  had  made  it  chill, 

And  from  the  trees,  that  fringed  his  hill, 
Shades  slanting  at  the  close  of  day 
Chill’d  more  his  else  delightful  way; 
Distant  a little  mile  he  spied 
A western  bank’s  still  sunny  side, 

And  right  toward  the  favour’d  place 
Proceeding  with  his  nimblest  pace, 

In  hope  to  bask  a little  yet, 

Just  reach’d  it  when  the  sun  was  set. 

Your  hermit,  young  and  jovial  Sirs, 
Learns  something  from  whate’er  occurs— 
And  hence,  he  said,  my  mind  computes 
The  real  worth  of  man’s  pursuits. 

His  object  chosen,  wealth  or  fame, 

Or  other  sublunary  game, 


232 


THE  MORALIZER  CORRECTED. 


Imagination  to  his  view 
Presents  it  deck’d  with  every  hue 
That  can  seduce  him  not  to  spare 
His  powers  of  best  exertion  there, 

But  youth,  health,  vigour  to  expend 
On  so  desirable  an  end. 

Ere  long  approach  life’s  evening  shades, 
The  glow  that  fancy  gave  it  fades ; 

And,  earn’d  too  late,  it  wants  the  grace 
That  first  engaged  him  in  the  chase. 

True,  answer’d  an  angelic  guide, 
Attendant  at  the  senior’s  side— 

But  whether  all  the  time  it  cost 
To  urge  the  fruitless  chase  be  lost, 

Must  be  decided  by  the  worth 
Of  that  which  call’d  his  ardour  forth. 
Trifles  pursued,  whate’er  the  event, 

Must  cause  him  shame  or  discontent ; 

A vicious  object  still  is  worse; 

Successful  there,  he  wins  a curse ! 

But  he,  whom  e’en  in  life’s  last  stage 
Endeavours  laudable  engage, 

Is  paid  at  least  in  peace  of  mind, 

And  sense  of  having  well  design’d ; 

And  if,  ere  he  attain  his  end, 

His  Sun  precipitate  descend, 

A brighter  prize  than  that  he  meant 
Shall  recompense  his  mere  intent. 

No  virtuous  wish  can  bear  a date 
Either  too  early  or  too  late. 


233 


THE  FAITHFUL  BIRD. 

The  greenhouse  is  my  summer  seat ; 
My  shrubs,  displaced  from  that  retreat, 
Enjoy’d  the  open  air; 

Two  goldfinches,  whose  sprightly  song 
Had  been  their  mutual  solace  long, 
Lived  happy  prisoners  there. 

They  sang  as  blithe  as  finches  sing, 
That  flutter  loose  on  golden  wing, 

And  frolic  where  they  list ; 
Strangers  to  liberty,  ’tis  true ; 

But  that  delight  they  never  knew, 

And,  therefore,  never  miss’d. 

But  Nature  works  in  every  breast 
With  force  not  easily  suppress’d ; 

And  Dick  felt  some  desires, 

That,  after  many  an  effort  vain, 
Instructed  him  at  length  to  gain 
A pass  between  his  wires. 

The  open  windows  seem’d  to  invite 
The  freeman  to  a farewell  flight ; 

But  Tom  was  still  confined ; 

And  Dick,  although  his  way  was  clear, 
Was  much  too  generous  and  sincere 
To  leave  his  friend  behind. 

20* 


234 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 


So,  settling  on  his  cage,  by  play, 

And  chirp,  and  kiss,  he  seem’d  to  say, 
You  must  not  live  alone — 

Nor  would  he  quit  that  chosen  stand 
Till  I,  with  slow  and  cautious  hand, 
Return’d  him  to  his  own. 

Oh  ye,  who  never  taste  the  joys 
Of  Friendship,  satisfied  with  noise, 
Fandango,  ball,  and  rout ! 

Blush,  when  I tell  you  how  a bird 
A prison  with  a friend  preferr’d 
To  liberty  without. 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 

A TALE. 

There  is  a field,  through  which  I often  pass, 
Thick  overspread  with  moss  and  silky  grass, 
Adjoining  close  to  Kilwick’s  echoing  wood, 

Where  oft  the  bitch-fox  hides  her  hapless  brood, 
Reserved  to  solace  many  a neighbouring  squire, 
That  he  may  follow  them  through  brake  and  brier, 
Contusion  hazarding  of  neck  or  spine, 

Which  rural  gentlemen  call  sport  divine. 

A narrow  brook,  by  rushy  banks  conceal’d, 

Runs  in  a bottom,  and  divides  the  field; 

Oaks  intersperse  it,  that  had  once  a head, 

But  now  wear  crests  of  oven-wood  instead ; 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 


235 


And  where  the  land  slopes  to  its  watery  bourn, 

Wide  yawns  a gulf  beside  a ragged  thorn; 

Bricks  line  the  sides,  but  shiver’d  long  ago, 

And  horrid  brambles  intertwine  below ; 

A hollow  scoop’d,  I judge,  in  ancient  time, 

For  baking  earth,  or  burning  rock  to  lime. 

Not  yet  the  hawthorn  bore  her  berries  red, 

With  which  the  fieldfare,  wintry  guest,  is  fed; 

Nor  Autumn  yet  had  brush’d  from  every  spray, 

With  her  chill  hand,  the  mellow  leaves  away; 

But  corn  was  housed,  and  beans  were  in  the  stack ; 
Now,  therefore,  issued  forth  the  spotted  pack 
With  tails  high-mounted,  ears  hung  low,  and  throats 
With  a whole  gamut  fill’d  of  heavenly  notes, 

For  which,  alas  ! my  destiny  severe, 

Though  ears  she  gave  me  two,  gave  me  no  ear. 

The  Sun,  accomplishing  his  early  march, 

His  lamp  now  planted  on  Heaven’s  topmost  arch, 
When,  exercise  and  air  my  only  aim, 

And  heedless  whither,  to  that  field  I came, 

Ere  yet  with  ruthless  joy  the  happy  hound 
Told  hill  and  dale  that  Reynard’s  track  was  found, 

Or  with  the  high-raised  horn’s  melodious  clang, 

All  Kilwick  and  all  Dinglederry*  rang. 

Sheep  grazed  the  field ; some  with  soft  bosom  press’d 
The  herb,  as  soft,  while  nibbling  stray’d  the  rest; 

Nor  noise  was  heard,  but  of  the  hasty  brook, 
Struggling,  detain’d  in  many  a petty  nook. 

All  seem’d  so  peaceful,  that,  from  them  convey’d, 

To  me  their  peace  by  kind  contagion  spread. 

But  when  the  huntsman,  with  distended  cheek, 

’Gan  make  his  instrument  of  music  speak, 

* Two  woods  belonging  to  John  Throckmorton,  Esq. 


' 236 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 


And  from  within  the  wood  that  crash  was  heard, 
Though  not  a hound  from  whom  it  burst  appear’d, 
The  sheep  recumbent,  and  the  sheep  that  grazed, 

All  huddling  into  phalanx,  stood  and  gazed, 

Admiring,  terrified,  the  novel  strain  ; [again ; 

Then  coursed  the  field  around,  and  coursed  it  round 
But,  recollecting  with  a sudden  thought, 

That  flight,  in  circles  urged,  advanced  them  nought, 
They  gather’d  close  around  the  old  pit’s  brink, 

And  thought  again — but  knew  not  what  to  think. 

The  man  to  solitude  accustom’d  long, 

Perceives  in  everything  that  lives  a tongue  ; 

Not  animals  alone,  but  shrubs  and  trees 
Have  speech  for  him,  and  understood  with  ease; 

After  long  drought,  when  rains  abundant  fall, 

He  hears  the  herbs  and  flowers  rejoicing  all ; 

Knows  what  the  freshness  of  their  hue  implies, 

How  glad  they  catch  the  largess  of  the  skies ; 

But,  with  precision  nicer  still,  the  mind 
He  scans  of  every  locomotive  kind; 

Birds  of  all  feather,  beasts  of  every  name, 

That  serve  mankind,  or  shun  them,  wild  or  tame ; 

The  looks  and  gestures  of  their  griefs  and  fears 
Have  all  articulation  in  his  ears  ; 

He  spells  them  true  by  intuition’s  light, 

And  needs  no  glossary  to  set  him  right. 

This  truth  premised  was  needful  as  a text, 

To  win  due  credence  to  what  follows  next. 

Awhile  they  mused ; surveying  every  face 
Thou  hadst  supposed  them  of  superior  race  ; 

Their  periwigs  of  wool,  and  fears  combined, 

Stamp’d  on  each  countenance  such  marks  of  mind, 
That  sage  they  seem’d,  as  lawyers  o’er  a doubt, 
Which,  puzzling  long,  at  last  they  puzzle  out ; 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 


237 


Or  academic  tutors,  teaching  youths, 

Sure  ne’er  to  want  them,  mathematic  truths ; 

When  thus  a mutton,  statelier  than  the  rest, 

A ram,  the  ewes  and  wethers  sad  address’d. 

Friends ! we  have  lived  too  long.  I never  heard 
Sounds  such  as  these  so  worthy  to  be  fear’d. 

Could  I believe,  that  winds  for  ages  pent 
In  earth’s  dark  womb  have  found  at  last  a vent, 

And  from  their  prison-house  below  arise, 

With  all  these  hideous  howlings  to  the  skies, 

I could  be  much  composed,  nor  should  appear, 

For  such  a cause,  to  feel  the  slightest  fear. 
Yourselves  have  seen,  what  time  the  thunders  roll’d 
All  night,  me  resting  quiet  in  the  fold. 

Or,  heard  we  that  tremendous  bray  alone, 

I could  expound  the  melancholy  tone  ; 

Should  deem  it  by  our  old  companion  made, 

The  ass ; for  he,  we  know,  has  lately  stray’d, 

And  being  lost,  perhaps,  and  wandering  wide, 

Might  be  supposed  to  clamour  for  a guide. 

But  ah  ! those  dreadful  yells  what  soul  can  hear 
That  owns  a carcass,  and  not  quake  for  fear? 
Demons  produce  them,  doubtless  ; brazen-claw’d, 
And  fang’d  with  brass,  the  demons  are  abroad; 

I hold  it,  therefore,  wisest  and  most  fit, 

That,  life  to  save,  we  leap  into  the  pit. 

Him  answer’d  then  his  loving  mate  and  true, 

But  more  discreet  than  he,  a Cambrian  ewe. 

How ! leap  into  the  pit  our  life  to  save  ? 

To  save  our  life  leap  all  into  the  grave? 

For  can  we  find  it  less?  Contemplate  first 
The  depth,  how  awful ! falling  there,  we  burst: 

Or  should  the  brambles,  interposed,  our  fall 
In  part  abate,  that  happiness  were  small ; 


238 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 


For  with  a race  like  theirs  no  chance  I see 
Of  peace  or  ease  to  creatures  clad  as  we. 

Meantime,  noise  kills  not.  Be  it  Dapple’s  bray, 

Or  be  it  not,  or  be  it  whose  it  may, 

And  rush  those  other  sounds,  that  seem  by  tongues 
Of  demons  utter’d,  from  whatever  lungs, 

Sounds  are  but  sounds,  and,  till  the  cause  appear, 
We  have  at  least  commodious  standing  here. 

Come  fiend,  come  fury,  giant,  monster,  blast, 

From  earth  or  hell,  we  can  but  plunge  at  last. 

While  thus  she  spake,  I fainter  heard  the  peals, 
For  Reynard,  close  attended  at  his  heels 
By  panting  dog,  tired  man,  and  spatter’d  horse, 
Through  mere  good  fortune,  took  a different  course. 
The  flock  grew  calm  again,  and  I,  the  road 
Following,  that  led  me  to  my  own  abode, 

Much  wonder’d  that  the  silly  sheep  had  found 
Such  cause  of  terror  in  an  empty  sound, 

So  sweet  to  huntsman,  gentleman,  and  hound. 

MORAL. 

Beware  of  desperate  steps.  The  darkest  day, 

Live  till  to-morrow,  will  have  pass’d  away. 


239 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON, 

ON  HIS  PRESENTING  ME  WITH  AN  ANTIQUE 
BUST  OF  HOMER. 

[May,  1793.] 

Kinsman  beloved,  and  as  a son,  by  me ! 

When  I behold  this  fruit  of  thy  regard, 

The  sculptured  form  of  my  old  favourite  Bard, 

I reverence  feel  for  him,  and  love  for  thee. 

Joy  too  and  grief.  Much  joy  that  there  should  be 
Wise  men  and  learn’ d,  who  grudge  not  to  reward 
With  some  applause  my  bold  attempt  and  hard, 
Which  others  scorn:  critics  by  courtesy. 

The  grief  is  this,  that,  sunk  in  Homer’s  mine, 

I lose  my  precious  years,  now  soon  to  fail, 
Handling  his  gold,  which  howsoe’er  it  shine, 

Proves  dross  when  balanced  in  the  Christian  scale. 
Be  wiser  thou — like  our  forefather  Donne, 

Seek  heavenly  wealth,  and  work  for  God  alone. 


BOADICEA. 

AN  ODE. 

When  the  British  warrior  Queen, 
Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods, 
Sought,  with  an  indignant  mien, 
Counsel  of  her  country’s  gods ; 


240 


BOADICEA. 


Sage  beneath  a spreading  oak 
Sat  the  Druid,  hoary  chief ; 

Every  burning  word  he  spoke 
Full  of  rage,  and  full  of  grief: 

Princess  ! if  our  aged  eyes 

Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 

’Tis  because  resentment  ties 
All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

Rome  shall  perish — write  that  word 
In  the  blood  that  she  has  spilt ; 

Perish,  hopeless  and  abhorr’d, 

Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 

Rome,  for  empire  far  renown’d, 
Tramples  on  a thousand  states ; 

Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground — 
Hark ! the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates  ! 

Other  Romans  shall  arise, 

Heedless  of  a soldier’s  name  ; 

Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  prize, 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

Then  the  progeny  that  springs 
From  the  forests  of  our  land, 

Arm’d  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings, 
Shall  a wider  world  command. 

Regions  Caesar  never  knew, 

Thy  posterity  shall  sway  ; 

Where  his  eagles  never  flew, 

None  invincible  as  they. 


HEROISM. 


241 


Such  the  Bard’s  prophetic  words, 
Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 
Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 
Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

She,  with  all  a monarch’s  pride, 

Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow : 
Rush’d  to  battle,  fought  and  died ; 
Dying,  hurl’d  them  at  the  foe. 

Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud, 

Heaven  awards  the  vengeance  due  ; 
Empire  is  on  us  bestow’d, 

Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you. 


HEROISM. 

There  was  a time  when  ^Etna’s  silent  fire 
Slept  unperceived,  the  mountain  yet  entire ; 
When,  conscious  of  no  danger  from  below, 

She  tower’d  a cloud-capt  pyramid  of  snow. 

No  thunders  shook,  with  deep  intestine  sound, 
The  blooming  groves  that  girdled  her  around ; 
Her  unctuous  olives,  and  her  purple  vines, 
(Unfelt  the  fury  of  those  bursting  mines,) 

The  peasant’s  hopes,  and  not  in  vain  assured, 
In  peace  upon  her  sloping  sides  matured. 
When  on  a day,  like  that  of  the  last  doom, 

A conflagration  labouring  in  her  womb, 

She  teem’d  and  heaved  with  an  infernal  birth, 
That  shook  the  circling  seas  and  solid  earth. 
21 


242 


HEROISM. 


Dark  and  voluminous  the  vapours  rise, 

And  hang  their  horrors  in  the  neighbouring  skies, 
While  through  the  Stygian  veil,  that  blots  the  day, 
In  dazzling  streaks  the  vivid  lightnings  play. 

But,  oh ! what  Muse,  and  in  what  powers  of  song, 
Can  trace  the  torrent  as  it  burns  along? 

Havock  and  devastation  in  the  van, 

It  marches  o’er  the  prostrate  works  of  man, 

Vines,  olives,  herbage,  forests,  disappear, 

And  all  the  charms  of  a Sicilian  year. 

Revolving  seasons,  fruitless  as  they  pass, 

See  it  an  uninform’d  and  idle  mass  ; 

Without  a soil  to  invite  the  tiller’s  care, 

Or  blade,  that  might  redeem  it  from  despair. 

Yet  time  at  length  (what  will  not  time  achieve  ?) 
Clothes  it  with  earth,  and  bids  the  produce  live. 
Once  more  the  spiry  myrtle  crowns  the  glade, 

And  ruminating  flocks  enjoy  the  shade. 

O bliss  precarious,  and  unsafe  retreats, 

O charming  Paradise  of  short-lived  sweets  ! 

The  self-same  gale,  that  wafts  the  fragrance  round, 
Brings  to  the  distant  ear  a sullen  sound : 

Again  the  mountain  feels  the  imprison’d  foe, 

Again  pours  ruin  on  the  vale  below. 

Ten  thousand  swains  the  wasted  scene  deplore, 
That  only  future  ages  can  restore. 

Ye  monarchs,  whom  the  lure  of  honour  draws, 
Who  write  in  blood  the  merits  of  your  cause, 

Who  strike  the  blow,  then  plead  your  own  defence, 
Glory  your  aim,  but  justice  your  pretence  ; 

Behold,  in  ^Etna’s  emblematic  fires, 

The  mischiefs  your  ambitious  pride  inspires ! 

Fast  by  the  stream  that  bounds  your  just  domain, 
And  tells  you  where  ye  have  a right  to  reign, 


HEROISM. 


243 


A nation  dwells,  not  envious  of  your  throne, 
Studious  of  peace,  their  neighbours’,  and  their  own. 
Ill-fated  race ! how  deeply  must  they  rue 
Their  only  crime — vicinity  to  you ! 

The  trumpet  sounds,  your  legions  swarm  abroad, 
Through  the  ripe  harvest  lies  their  destined  road ; 

At  every  step  beneath  their  feet  they  tread 
The  life  of  multitudes,  a nation’s  bread ! 

Earth  seems  a garden  in  its  loveliest  dress 
Before  them,  and  behind  a wilderness. 

Famine,  and  Pestilence,  her  first-born  son, 

Attend  to  finish  what  the  sword  begun ; 

And  echoing  praises,  such  as  fiends  might  earn, 

And  Folly  pays,  resound  at  your  return. 

A calm  succeeds — but  Plenty,  with  her  train 
Of  heartfelt  joys,  succeeds  not  soon  again, 

And  years  of  pining  indigence  must  show 
What  scourges  are  the  gods  that  rule  below. 

Yet  man,  laborious  man,  by  slow  degrees, 

(Such  is  his  thirst  of  opulence  and  ease,) 

Plies  all  the  sinews  of  industrious  toil, 

Gleans  up  the  refuse  of  the  general  spoil, 

Rebuilds  the  towers  that  smoked  upon  the  plain, 
And  the  sun  gilds  the  shining  spires  again. 

Increasing  commerce,  and  reviving  art, 

Renew  the  quarrel  on  the  conqueror’s  part ; 

And  the  sad  lesson  must  be  learn’d  once  more, 

That  wealth  within  is  ruin  at  the  door. 

What  are  ye,  monarchs,  laurel’d  heroes,  say, 

But  iEtnas  of  the  suffering  world  ye  sway  ? 

Sweet  Nature,  stripp’d  of  her  embroider’d  robe, 
Deplores  the  wasted  regions  of  her  globe ; 

And  stands  a witness  at  Truth’s  awful  bar, 

To  prove  you  there  destroyers,  as  ye  are. 


244 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 


O place  me  in  some  Heaven-protected  isle, 
Where  Peace,  and  Equity,  and  Freedom  smile; 
Where  no  volcano  pours  his  fiery  flood, 

No  crested  warrior  dips  his  plume  in  blood ; 
Where  Power  secures  what  Industry  has  won; 
Where  to  succeed  is  not  to  be  undone ; 

A land  that  distant  tyrants  hate  in  vain, 

In  Britain’s  isle,  beneath  a George’s  reign ! 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 


“Amicitia  nisi  inter  bonos  esse  non  potest.’ ’ 

Cicero. 


[1782.] 

What  virtue  can  we  name,  or  grace, 
But  men  unqualified  and  base 
Will  boast  it  their  possession? 
Profusion  apes  the  noble  part 
Of  liberality  of  heart, 

And  dulness,  of  discretion. 

But  as  the  gem  of  richest  cost 
Is  ever  counterfeited  most, 

So,  always,  imitation 
Employs  the  utmost  skill  she  can 
To  counterfeit  the  faithful  man, 

The  friend  of  long  duration. 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 


245 


Some  will  pronounce  me  too  severe, 
But  long  experience  speaks  me  clear ; 

Therefore,  that  censure  scorning, 

I will  proceed  to  mark  the  shelves 
On  which  so  many  dash  themselves, 
And  give  the  simple  warning. 

Youth,  unadmonish’d  by  a guide, 

Will  trust  to  any  fair  outside, — 

An  error  soon  corrected ; 

For  who  but  learns,  with  riper  years, 
That  man,  when  smoothest  he  appears, 
Is  most  to  be  suspected  ? 

But  here  again  a danger  lies, 

Lest,  thus  deluded  by  our  eyes, 

And  taking  trash  for  treasure, 

We  should,  when  undeceived,  conclude 
Friendship  imaginary  good, 

A mere  Utopian  pleasure. 

An  acquisition  rather  rare 
Is  yet  no  subject  of  despair; 

Nor  should  it  seem  distressful, 

If,  either  on  forbidden  ground, 

Or  where  it  was  not  to  be  found, 

We  sought  it  unsuccessful. 

No  friendship  will  abide  the  test 
That  stands  on  sordid  interest 
And  mean  self-love  erected  ; 

Nor  such  as  may  awhile  subsist 
’Twixt  sensualist  and  sensualist, 

For  vicious  ends  connected. 

21* 


246 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 


Who  hopes  a friend,  should  have  a heart 
Himself,  well  furnish’d  for  the  part, 

And  ready  on  occasion 
To  show  the  virtue  that  he  seeks ; 

For  ’tis  an  union  that  bespeaks 
A just  reciprocation. 

A fretful  temper  will  divide 
The  closest  knot  that  may  be  tied, 

By  ceaseless  sharp  corrosion : 

A temper  passionate  and  fierce 
May  suddenly  your  joys  disperse 
At  one  immense  explosion. 

In  vain  the  talkative  unite 
With  hope  of  permanent  delight ; 

The  secret  just  committed 
They  drop,  through  mere  desire  to  prate, 
Forgetting  its  important  weight, 

And  by  themselves  outwitted. 

How  bright  soe’er  the  prospect  seems, 

All  thoughts  of  friendship  are  but  dreams, 
If  envy  chance  to  creep  in ; 

An  envious  man,  if  you  succeed, 

May  prove  a dangerous  foe  indeed, 

But  not  a friend  worth  keeping. 

As  envy  pines  at  good  possess’d, 

So  jealousy  looks  forth  distress’d, 

On  good  that  seems  approaching ; 

And,  if  success  his  steps  attend, 

Discerns  a rival  in  a friend, 

And  hates  him  for  encroaching. 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 


247 


Hence  authors  of  illustrious  name 
(Unless  belied  by  common  fame) 

Are  sadly  prone  to  quarrel; 

To  deem  the  wit  .a  friend  displays 
So  much  of  loss  to  their  own  praise, 

And  pluck  each  other’s  laurel. 

A man  renown’ d for  repartee 
Will  seldom  scruple  to  make  free 
With  friendship’s  finest  feeling; 

Will  thrust  a dagger  at  your  breast, 

And  tell  you  ’twas  a special  jest, 

By  way  of  balm  for  healing. 

Beware  of  tattlers ; keep  your  ear 
Close  stopp’d  against  the  tales  they  bear, — 
Fruits  of  their  own  invention ; 

The  separation  of  chief  friends 
Is  what  their  kindness  most  intends ; 

Their  sport  is  your  dissension. 

Friendship  that  wantonly  admits 
A joco-serious  play  of  wits 
In  brilliant  altercation, 

Is  union  such  as  indicates, 

Like  Hand-in-Hand  insurance  plates, 
Danger  of  conflagration. 

Some  fickle  creatures  boast  a soul 
True  as  a needle  to  the  pole ; 

Yet  shifting,  like  the  weather, 

The  needle’s  constancy  forego 
For  any  novelty,  and  show 
Its  variations  rather. 


248 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 


Insensibility  makes  some 
Unseasonably  deaf  and  dumb, 

When  most  you  need  their  pity ; 

’Tis  waiting  till  the  tears  shall  fall 
From  Gog  and  Magog  in  Guildhall, 
Those  playthings  of  the  City. 

The  great  and  small  but  rarely  meet 
On  terms  of  amity  complete : 

The  attempt  would  scarce  be  madder, 
Should  any,  from  the  bottom,  hope 
At  one  huge  stride  to  reach  the  top 
Of  an  erected  ladder. 

Courtier  and  patriot  cannot  mix 
Their  heterogeneous  politics, 

Without  an  effervescence, 

Such  as  of  salts  with  lemon-juice, 

But  which  is  rarely  known  to  induce, 
Like  that,  a coalescence. 

Religion  should  extinguish  strife, 

And  make  a calm  of  human  life : 

But  even  those  who  differ 
Only  on  topics  left  at  large, 

How  fiercely  will  they  meet  and  charge 
No  combatants  are  stiffer. 

To  prove,  alas  l my  main  intent, 

Needs  no  great  cost  of  argument, 

No  cutting  and  contriving; 

Seeking  a real  friend,  we  seem 
To  adopt  the  chymist’s  golden  dream, 
With  still  less  hope  of  thriving. 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 


249 


Then  judge,  or  ere  you  choose  your  man, 

As  circumspectly  as  you  can, 

And,  having  made  election, 

See  that  no  disrespect  of  yours, 

Such  as  a friend  but  ill  endures, 

Enfeeble  his  affection. 

It  is  not  timber,  lead,  and  stone, 

An  architect  requires  alone, 

To  finish  a great  building; 

The  palace  were  but  half  complete, 

Could  he  by  any  chance  forget 
The  carving  and  the  gilding. 

As  similarity  of  mind, 

Or  something  not  to  be  defined, 

First  rivets  our  attention ; 

So  manners,  decent  and  polite, 

The  same  we  practised  at  first  sight, 

Must  save  it  from  declension. 

The  man  who  hails  you  Tom  or  Jack, 

And  proves,  by  thumping  on  your  back, 

His  sense  of  your  great  merit, 

Is  such  a friend,  that  one  had  need 
Be  very  much  his  friend  indeed, 

To  pardon  or  to  bear  it. 

Some  friends  make  this  their  prudent  plan — 
“ Say  little,  and  hear  all  you  can 
Safe  policy,  but  hateful : 

So  barren  sands  imbibe  the  shower, 

But  render  neither  fruit  nor  flower, 
Unpleasant  and  ungrateful. 


250 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 


They  whisper  trivial  things,  and  small 
But,  to  communicate  at  all 

Things  serious,  deem  improper ; 
Their  feculence  and  froth  they  show, 
But  keep  the  best  contents  below, 

Just  like  a simmering  copper. 

These  samples  (for,  alas ! at  last 
These  are  but  samples,  and  a taste 
Of  evils  yet  unmention’d  ;) 

May  prove  the  task,  a task  indeed, 

In  which  ’tis  much  if  we  succeed, 
However  well-intention’d. 

Pursue  the  theme,  and  you  shall  find 
A disciplined  and  furnish’d  mind 
To  be  at  least  expedient; 

And,  after  summing  all  the  rest, 
Religion  ruling  in  the  breast 
A principal  ingredient. 

True  friendship  has,  in  short,  a grace 
More  than  terrestrial  in  its  face, 

That  proves  it  Heaven-descended; 
Man’s  love  of  woman  not  so  pure, 
Nor,  when  sincerest,  so  secure 
To  last  till  life  is  ended. 


251 


TO  MRS.  THROCKMORTON, 

ON  HER  BEAUTIFUL  TRANSCRIPT  OF  HORACE’S  ODE, 
“ AD  LIBRUM  SUUM.” 

[February,  1790,] 

Maria,  could  Horace  have  guess’d 
What  honour  awaited  his  ode 
To  his  own  little  volume  address’d, 

The  honour  which  you  have  bestow’d, — 
Who  have  traced  it  in  characters  here, 

So  elegant,  even,  and  neat, 

He  had  laugh’d  at  the  critical  sneer 

Which  he  seems  to  have  trembled  to  meet. 

And  sneer,  if  you  please,  he  had  said, 

A nymph  shall  hereafter  arise 
Who  shall  give  me,  when  you  are  all  dead, 

The  glory  your  malice  denies ; 

Shall  dignity  give  to  my  lay, 

Although  but  a mere  bagatelle ; 

And  even  a Poet  shall  say, 

Nothing  ever  was  written  so  well. 


252 


ON  A MISCHIEVOUS  BULL, 

WHICH  THE  OWNER  OE  HIM  SOLD  AT  THE  AUTHOR^S 
INSTANCE. 

Go — thou  art  all  unfit  to  share 
The  pleasures  of  this  place 

With  such  as  its  old  tenants  are, 

Creatures  of  gentler  race. 

The  squirrel  here  his  hoard  provides, 

Aware  of  wintry  storms, 

And  woodpeckers  explore  the  sides 
Of  rugged  oaks  for  worms. 

The  sheep  here  smooths  the  knotted  thorn 
With  frictions  of  her  fleece; 

And  here  I wander,  eve  and  morn, 

Like  her,  a friend  to  peace. 

Ah ! — I could  pity  thee  exiled 
From  this  secure  retreat — 

I would  not  lose  it  to  be  styled 
The  happiest  of  the  great. 

But  thou  canst  taste  no  calm  delight ; 

Thy  pleasure  is  to  show 

Thy  magnanimity  in  fight, 

Thy  prowess — therefore  go — 

I care  not  whether  east  or  north ; 

So  I no  more  may  find  thee ; 

The  angry  muse  thus  sings  thee  forth, 

And  claps  the  gate  behind  thee. 


253 


ON  THE  QUEEN’S  VISIT  TO  LONDON. 

THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  SEVENTENTH  OF  MARCH, 

1789. 

When,  long  sequester’d  from  his  throne, 
George  took  his  seat  again, 

By  right  of  worth,  not  blood  alone, 

Entitled  here  to  reign, 

Then  Loyalty,  with  all  his  lamps 
New  trimm’d,  a gallant  show  ! 

Chasing  the  darkness  and  the  damps, 

Set  London  in  a glow. 

’Twas  hard  to  tell,  of  streets  or  squares, 

Which  form’d  the  chief  display, 

These  most  resembling  cluster’d  stars, 

Those  the  long  milky  way. 

Bright  shone  the  roofs,  the  domes,  the  spires, 
And  rockets  flew,  self-driven, 

To  hang  their  momentary  fires 
Amid  the  vault  of  Heaven. 

So  fire  with  water  to  compare, 

The  ocean  serves,  on  high 

Up-spouted  by  a whale  in  air, 

To  express  unwieldy  joy. 

Had  all  the  pageants  of  the  world 
In  one  procession  join’d, 

And  all  the  banners  been  unfurl’d 
That  heralds  e’er  design’d, 

22 


254  ON  THE  queen’s  VISIT  TO  LONDON. 

For  no  such  sight  had  England’s  Queen 
Forsaken  her  retreat, 

Where  George  recover’d,  made  a scene, 
Sweet  always,  doubly  sweet. 

Yet  glad  she  came  that  night  to  prove, 

A witness  undescried, 

How  much  the  object  of  her  love 
Was  loved  by  all  beside. 

Darkness  the  skies  had  mantled  o’er 
In  aid  of  her  design 

Darkness,  O Queen!  ne’er  call’d  before 
To  veil  a deed  of  thine  ! 

On  borrow’d  wheels  away  she  flies, 
Resolved  to  be  unknown, 

And  gratify  no  curious  eyes, 

That  night,  except  her  own. 

Arrived,  a night  like  noon  she  sees, 

And  hears  the  million  hum ; 

As  all  by  instinct,  like  the  bees, 

Had  known  their  sovereign  come. 

Pleased  she  beheld  aloft  portray’d 
On  many  a splendid  wall, 

Emblems  of  health,  and  heavenly  aid, 
And  George  the  theme  of  all : 

Unlike  the  senigmatic  line, 

So  difficult  to  spell, 

Which  shook  Belshazzar  at  his  wine, 
The  night  his  city  fell. 


ON  THE  QUEEN’S  VISIT  TO  LONDON. 

Soon,  wat’ry  grew  her  eyes  and  dim, 

But  with  a joyful  tear; 

None  else,  except  in  prayer  for  him, 
George  ever  drew  from  her. 

It  was  a scene  in  every  part 

Like  those  in  fable  feign’d, 

And  seem’d  by  some  magician’s  art 
Created  and  sustain’d. 

But  other  magic  there,  she  knew, 

Had  been  exerted  none, 

To  raise  such  wonders  in  her  view, 

Save  love  of  George  alone. 

That  cordial  thought  her  spirit  cheer’d, 
And  through  the  cumbrous  throng, 

Not  else  unworthy  to  be  fear’d, 
Convey’d  her  calm  along. 

So,  ancient  poets  say,  serene 

The  sea-maid  rides  the  waves, 

And,  fearless  of  the  billowy  scene, 

Her  peaceful  bosom  laves. 

With  more  than  astronomic  eyes 

She  view’d  the  sparkling  show  ; 

One  Georgian  star  adorns  the  skies, 

She  myriads  found  below. 

Yet  let  the  glories  of  a night 

Like  that,  once  seen,  suffice, 

Heaven  grant  us  no  such  future  sight, 
Such  previous  woe  the  price ! 


256 


ANNUS  MEMORABILIS,  1789. 

WRITTEN  IN  COMMEMORATION  OF  HIS  MAJESTY’S 
HAPPY  RECOVERY. 

I ransack’d,  for  a theme  of  song, 

Much  ancient  chronicle,  and  long ; 

I read  of  bright  embattled  fields, 

Of  trophied  helmets,  spears,  and  shields, 

Of  chiefs,  whose  single  arm  could  boast 
Prowess  to  dissipate  a host ; 

Through  tomes  of  fable  and  of  dream 
I sought  an  eligible  theme, 

But  none  I found,  or  found  them  shared 
Already  by  some  happier  Bard. 

To  modern  times,  with  truth  to  guide 
My  busy  search,  I next  applied ; 

Here  cities  won,  and  fleets  dispersed, 

Urged  loud  a claim  to  be  rehearsed, 

Deeds  of  unperishing  renown, 

Our  fathers’  triumphs  and  our  own. 

Thus,  as  the  bee,  from  bank  to  bower 
Assiduous  sips  at  every  flower, 

But  rests  on  none,  till  that  be  found 
Where  most  nectareous  sweets  abound, 

So  I from  theme  to  theme,  display’d 
In  many  a page  historic,  stray’d, 

Siege  after  siege,  fight  after  fight, 

Contemplating  with  small  delight, 

(For  feats  of  sanguinary  hue 
Not  always  glitter  in  my  view ;) 

Till,  settling  on  the  current  year, 

I found  the  far-sought  treasure  near. 


ANNUS  MEMORABILIS. 


257 


A theme  for  poetry  divine, 

A theme  to  ennoble  even  mine, 

In  memorable  eighty-nine. 

The  Spring  of  eighty-nine  shall  be 
An  aera  cherish’d  long  by  me, 

Which  joyful  I will  oft  record, 

And  thankful,  at  my  frugal  board ; 

For  then  the  clouds  of  eighty-eight, 

That  threaten’d  England’s  trembling  state 
With  loss  of  what  she  least  could  spare, 
Her  sovereign’s  tutelary  care, 

One  breath  of  Heav’n,  that  cried — Restore ! 
Chased,  never  to  assemble  more : 

And  for  the  richest  crown  on  earth, 

If  valued  by  its  wearer’s  worth, 

The  symbol  of  a righteous  reign 
Sat  fast  on  George’s  brows  again. 

Then  peace  and  joy  again  possess’d 
Our  Queen’s  long-agitated  breast ; 

Such  joy  and  peace  as  can  be  known 
By  sufferers  like  herself  alone, 

Who  losing,  or  supposing  lost, 

The  good  on  earth  they  valued  most, 

For  that  dear  sorrow’s  sake  forego 
All  hope  of  happiness  below, 

Then  suddenly  regain  the  prize, 

And  flash  thanksgivings  to  the  skies ! 

O Queen  of  Albion,  queen  of  isles ! 

Since  all  thy  tears  were  changed  to  smiles, 
The  eyes  that  never  saw  thee,  shine 
With  joy  not  unallied  to  thine; 

Transports  not  chargeable  with  art 
Illume  the  land’s  remotest  part, 

22* 


258 


GRATITUDE. 


And  strangers  to  the  air  of  courts, 

Both  in  their  toils  and  at  their  sports, 
The  happiness  of  answer’d  prayers, 
That  gilds  thy  features,  show  in  theirs. 

If  they,  who  on  thy  state  attend, 
Awe-struck,  before  thy  presence  bend, 
’Tis  but  the  natural  effect 
Of  grandeur  that  ensures  respect ; 

But  she  is  something  more  than  Queen, 
Who  is  beloved  where  never  seen. 


GRATITUDE. 

ADDRESSED  TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

[1786.] 

This  cap,  that  so  stately  appears, 

With  ribbon-bound  tassel  on  high, 
Which  seems,  by  the  crest  that  it  rears, 
Ambitious  of  brushing  the  sky : 

This  cap  to  my  cousin  I owe, 

She  gave  it,  and  gave  me  beside, 
Wreathed  into  an  elegant  bow, 

The  ribbon  with  which  it  is  tied : 

This  wheel-footed  studying  chair, 
Contrived  both  for  toil  and  repose, 
Wide-elbow’d,  and  wadded  with  hair, 
In  which  I both  scribble  and  dose, 
Bright-studded  to  dazzle  the  eyes 
And  rival  in  lustre  of  that 
In  which,  or  astronomy  lies, 

Fair  Cassiopeia  sat : 


GRATITUDE. 


259 


These  carpets  so  soft  to  the  foot, 
Caledonia’s  traffic  and  pride! 

Oh,  spare  them,  ye  knights  of  the  boot, 
Escaped  from  a cross-country  ride ! 
This  table  and  mirror  within, 

Secure  from  collision  and  dust, 

At  which  I oft  shave  cheek  and  chin, 
And  periwig  nicely  adjust : 

This  movable  structure  of  shelves, 

For  its  beauty  admired  and  its  use, 

And  charged  with  octavos  and  twelves, 
The  gayest  I had  to  produce ; 

Where,  flaming  in  scarlet  and  gold, 

My  poems  enchanted  I view, 

And  hope,  in  due  time,  to  behold 
My  Iliad  and  Odyssey  too : 

This  china,  that  decks  the  alcove, 

Which  here  people  call  a buffet, 

But  what  the  gods  call  it  above, 

Has  ne’er  been  reveal’d  to  us  yet: 
These  curtains,  that  keep  the  room  warm 
Or  cool,  as  the  season  demands, 

Those  stoves  that  for  pattern  and  form, 
Seem  the  labour  of  Mulciber’s  hands. 

All  these  are  not  half  that  I owe 
To  One,  from  our  earliest  youth 
To  me  ever  ready  to  show 

Benignity,  friendship,  and  truth; 

For  Time,  the  destroyer  declared, 

And  foe  of  our  perishing  kind, 

If  even  her  face  he  has  spared, 

Much  less  could  he  alter  her  mind. 


260 


TO  MY  COUSIN,  ANNE  BODHAM. 


Thus  compass’d  about  with  the  goods 
And  chattels  of  leisure  and  ease, 

I indulge  my  poetical  moods 
In  many  such  fancies  as  these ; 

And  fancies  I fear  they  will  seem — 
Poets’  goods  are  not  often  so  fine ; 

The  Poets  will  swear  that  I dream 

When  I sing  of  the  splendour  of  mine. 


TO  MY  COUSIN,  ANNE  BODHAM, 

ON  RECEIVING  FROM  HER  A NETWORK  PURSE, 
MADE  BY  HERSELF. 

[May  4,  1793.] 


My  gentle  Anne,  whom  heretofore, 
When  I was  young,  and  thou  no  more 
Than  plaything  for  a nurse, 

I danced  and  fondled  on  my  knee, 

A kitten  both  in  size  and  glee, 

I thank  thee  for  my  purse. 

Gold  pays  the  worth  of  all  things  here ; 
But  not  of  love  ; — that  gem’s  too  dear 
For  richest  rogues  to  win  it; 

I,  therefore,  as  a proof  of  love, 

Esteem  thy  present  far  above 
The  best  things  kept  within  it. 


261 


A POETICAL  EPISTLE  TO  LADY  AUSTEN. 

[December  17, 1781.] 

Dear  Anna,  between  friend  and  friend, 

Prose  answers  every  common  end ; 

Serves,  in  a plain  and  homely  way, 

To  express  the  occurrence  of  the  day ; 

Our  health,  the  weather,  and  the  news ; 

What  walks  we  take,  what  books  we  choose; 

And  all  the  floating  thoughts  we  find 
Upon  the  surface  of  the  mind. 

But  when  a Poet  takes  the  pen, 

Far  more  alive  than  other  men, 

He  feels  a gentle  tingling  come 
Down  to  his  finger  and  his  thumb, 

Derived  from  Nature’s  noblest  part, 

The  centre  of  a glowing  heart: 

And  this  is  what  the  world,  which  knows 
No  flights  above  the  pitch  of  prose, 

His  more  sublime  vagaries  slighting, 

Denominates  an  itch  for  writing. 

No  wonder  I,  who  scribble  rhyme 
To  catch  the  triflers  of  the  time, 

And  tell  them  truths  divine  and  clear, 

Which,  couch’d  in  prose,  they  will  not  hear ; 

Who  labour  hard  to  allure  and  draw 
The  loiterers  I never  saw, 

Should  feel  that  itching,  and  that  tingling, 

With  all  my  purpose  intermingling, 

To  your  intrinsic  merit  true, 

When  call’d  to  address  myself  to  you. 


262  A POETICAL  EPISTLE  TO  LADY  AUSTEN. 

Mysterious  are  His  ways,  whose  power 
Brings  forth  that  unexpected  hour, 

When  minds,  that  never  met  before, 

Shall  meet,  unite,  and  part  no  more : 

It  is  the  allotment  of  the  skies, 

The  hand  of  the  Supremely  Wise, 

That  guides  and  governs  our  affections, 

And  plans  and  orders  our  connexions : 

Directs  us  in  our  distant  road, 

And  marks  the  bounds  of  our  abode. 

Thus  we  were  settled  when  you  found  us, 

Peasants  and  children  all  around  us, 

Not  dreaming  of  so  dear  a friend, 

Deep  in  the  abyss  of  Silver-End.* 

Thus  Martha,  e’en  against  her  will, 

Perched  on  the  top  of  yonder  hill ; 

And  you,  though  you  must  needs  prefer 
The  fairer  scenes  of  sweet  Sancerre,t 
Are  come  from  distant  Loire,  to  choose 
A cottage  on  the  banks  of  Ouse. 

This  page  of  Providence  quite  new, 

And  now  just  opening  to  our  view, 

Employs  our  present  thoughts  and  pains, 

To  guess  and  spell  what  it  contains : 

But,  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year, 

Will  make  the  dark  enigma  clear ; 

And  furnish  us,  perhaps,  at  last, 

Like  other  scenes  already  past, 

With  proof,  that  we,  and  our  affairs, 

Are  part  of  a Jehovah’s  cares  : 

* An  obscure  part  of  Olney,  adjoining  to  the  residence  of  Cowper, 
which  faced  the  market-place. 

f Lady  Austen’s  residence  in  France. 


A POETICAL  EPISTLE  TO  LADY  AUSTEN.  263 


For  God  unfolds,  by  slow  degrees, 

The  purport  of  His  deep  decrees  ; 

Sheds,  every  hour,  a clearer  light 
In  aid  of  our  defective  sight ; 

And  spreads,  at  length,  before  the  soul, 

A beautiful  and  perfect  whole, 

Which  busy  man’s  inventive  brain 
Toils  to  anticipate,  in  vain. 

Say,  Anna,  had  you  never  known 
The  beauties  of  a rose  full  blown, 

Could  you,  though  luminous  your  eye, 
By  looking  on  the  bud,  descry, 

Or  guess,  with  a prophetic  power, 

The  future  splendour  of  the  flower  ? 

Just  so,  the  Omnipotent,  who  turns 
The  system  of  a world’s  concerns, 

From  mere  minutiae  can  educe 
Events  of  most  important  use  ; 

And  bid  a dawning  sky  display 
The  blaze  of  a meridian  day. 

The  works  of  man  tend,  one  and  all, 

As  needs  they  must,  from  great  to  small ; 

And  vanity  absorbs  at  length 

The  monuments  of  human  strength. 

But  who  can  tell  how  vast  the  plan 
Which  this  day’s  incident  began  ? 

Too  small,  perhaps,  the  slight  occasion 
For  our  dim-sighted  observation  ; 

It  pass’d  unnoticed,  as  the  bird 
That  cleaves  the  yielding  air  unheard, 
And  yet  may  prove,  when  understood, 

An  harbinger  of  endless  good. 

Not  that  I deem,  or  mean  to  call 
Friendship  a blessing  cheap  or  small : 


264 


TO  MRS.  KING. 


But  merely  to  remark,  that  ours, 

Like  some  of  Nature’s  sweetest  flowers, 
Rose  from  a seed  of  tiny  size, 

That  seem’d  to  promise  no  such  prize ; 
A transient  visit  intervening, 

And  made  almost  without  a meaning, 
(Hardly  the  effect  of  inclination, 

Much  less  of  pleasing  expectation,) 
Produced  a friendship,  then  begun, 

That  has  cemented  us  in  one  ; 

And  placed  it  in  our  power  to  prove, 

By  long  fidelity  and  love, 

That  Solomon  has  wisely  spoken ; 

“ A three-fold  cord  is  not  soon  broken.” 


TO  MRS.  KING, 

ON  HER  KIND  PRESENT  TO  THE  AUTHOR;  A PATCH- 
WORK  COUNTERPANE  OF  HER  OWN  MAKING. 

[August  14,  1790.] 

The  Bard,  if  e’er  he  feel  at  all, 

Must  sure  be  quicken’d  by  a call 
Both  on  his  heart  and  head, 

To  pay  with  tuneful  thanks  the  care 
And  kindness  of  a Lady  fair 
Who  deigns  to  deck  his  bed. 


TO  MRS.  KING. 


265 


A bed  like  this,  in  ancient  time, 

On  Ida’s  barren  top  sublime, 

(As  Homer’s  Epic  shows,) 

Composed  of  sweetest  vernal  flowers, 
Without  the  aid  of  sun  or  showers, 

For  Jove  and  Juno  rose. 

Less  beautiful,  however  gay, 

Is  that  which,  in  the  scorching  day, 
Receives  the  weary  swain 
Who,  laying  his  long  scythe  aside, 

Sleeps  on  some  bank  with  daisies  pied, 
’Till  roused  to  toil  again. 

What  labours  of  the  loom  I see  ! 

Looms  numberless  have  groan’d  for  me  ! 

Should  every  maiden  come 
To  scramble  for  the  patch  that  bears 
The  impress  of  the  robe  she  wears, 

The  bell  would  toll  for  some. 

And  oh,  what  havoc  would  ensue  ! 

This  bright  display  of  every  hue 
All  in  a moment  fled  ! 

As  if  a storm  should  strip  the  bowers 
Of  all  their  tendrils,  leaves,  and  flowers — 
Each  pocketing  a shred. 

Thanks,  then,  to  every  gentle  fair 
Who  will  not  come  to  peck  me  bare 
As  bird  of  borrow’d  feather ; 

And  thanks  to  One  above  them  all, 

The  gentle  Fair  of  Pertenhall, 

Who  put  the  whole  together. 

23 


266 


SONNET. 

TO  WILLIAM  WILBERFORCE,  ESQ. 

[April  16,  1792.] 

Thy  country,  Wilberforce,  with  just  disdain, 

Hears  thee,  by  cruel  men  and  impious,  call’d 
Fanatic,  for  thy  zeal  to  loose  the  enthrall’d 
From  exile,  public  sale,  and  Slavery’s  chain. 

Friend  of  the  poor,  the  wrong’d,  the  fetter-gall’d, 

Fear  not  lest  labour  such  as  thine  be  vain. 

Thou  hast  achieved  a part ; hast  gain’d  the  ear 
Of  Britain’s  senate  to  thy  glorious  cause  ; 

Hope  smiles,  Joy  springs,  and,  though  cold  Caution  pause 
And  weave  delay,  the  better  hour  is  near 
That  shall  remunerate  thy  toils  severe 
By  peace  for  Afric,  fenced  with  British  laws. 

Enjoy  what  thou  hast  won,  esteem  and  love 
From  all  the  Just  on  earth,  and  all  the  Blest  above. 


TO  DR.  AUSTIN, 

OF  CECIL  STREET,  LONDON. 
[May  26,  1792.] 

Austin  ! accept  a grateful  verse  from  me, 
The  poet’s  treasure,  no  inglorious  fee. 
Loved  by  the  Muses,  thy  ingenuous  mind 
Pleasing  requital  in  my  verse  may  find ; 


SONNET. 


267 


Verse  oft  has  dash’d  the  scythe  of  Time  aside, 
Immortalizing  names  which  else  had  died : 

And  0 ! could  I command  the  glittering  wealth 
With  which  sick  kings  are  glad  to  purchase  health! 

Yet,  if  extensive  fame,  and  sure  to  live, 

Were  in  the  power  of  verse  like  mine  to  give, 

I would  not  recompense  his  art  with  less, 

Who,  giving  Mary  health,  heals  my  distress. 

Friend  of  my  friend  !*  I love  thee,  though  unknown, 
And  boldly  call  thee,  being  his,  my  own. 


SONNET, 

TO  GEORGE  ROMNEY,  ESQ. 

On  his  picture  of  me  in  Crayons,  drawn  at  Eartham,  in  the  61st  year 
of  my  age,  and  in  the  months  of  August 
and  September,  1792. 

[October,  1792.] 

Romney,  expert  infallibly  to  trace 

On  chart  or  canvass,  not  the  form  alone 
And  semblance,  but,  however  faintly  shown, 

The  mind’s  impression  too  on  every  face — 

With  strokes  that  time  ought  never  to  erase, 

Thou  hast  so  pencil’d  mine  that,  though  I own 
The  subject  worthless,  I have  never  known 
The  artist  shining  with  superior  grace. 


Hayley. 


268 


TO  MRS.  UNWIN. 


But  this  I mark — that  symptoms  none  of  woe 
In  thy  incomparable  work  appear. 

Well — I am  satisfied  it  should  be  so, 

Since,  on  maturer  thought,  the  cause  is  clear ; 
For  in  my  looks  what  sorrow  couldst  thou  see 
When  I was  Hayley’s  guest,  and  sat  to  thee? 


TO  MRS.  UNWIN. 

[May,  1793.] 

Mary  ! I want  a lyre  with  other  strings, 

Such  aid  from  Heaven  as  some  have  feign’d  they  drew, 
An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new 
And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things, 

That,  ere  through  age  or  woe  I shed  my  wings, 

I may  record  thy  worth  with  honour  due, 

In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true, 

And  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings. 

But  thou  hast  little  need.  There  is  a book 
By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly  light, 

On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look, 

A chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright; 

There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,  shine, 

And,  since  thou  own’st  that  praise,  I spare  thee  mine. 


269 


TO  MARY. 

[Autumn  of  1793.] 

The  twentieth  year  is  well  nigh  past, 

Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast ; 

Ah,  would  that  this  might  be  the  last ! 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  spirits  have  a fainter  flow, 

I see  thee  daily  weaker  grow^- 
’Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low, 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  needles,  once  a shining  store, 

For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 

Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more; 

My  Mary ! 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 

Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will, 

My  Mary ! 

But  well  thou  play’dst  the  housewife’s  part, 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 

My  Mary ! 


Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  utter’d  in  a dream  ! 

Yet  me  they  charm,  whate’er  the  theme, 

My  Mary  { 
23* 


270 


TO  MARY. 


Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 

Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 

My  Mary  ! 

For,  could  I view  nor  them  nor  thee, 

What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I see  ? 

The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 

My  Mary ! 


Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline, 

Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign ; 

Yet  gently  press’d,  press  gently  mine, 

My  Mary ! 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  provest. 

That  now  at  every  step  thou  movest 
Upheld  by  two;  yet  still  thou  lovest, 

My  Mary ! 

And  still  to  love,  though  press’d  with  ill, 

In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 

With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still, 

My  Mary ! 

But  ah ! by  constant  heed  I know, 

How  oft  the  sadness  that  I show, 

Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe, 

My  Mary  ! 


And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 

Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last, 

My  Mary! 


271 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE. 

TO  THE  MARCH  IN  SCIPIO.  WRITTEN  WHEN 
THE  NEWS  ARRIVED. 


[September,  1782.] 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 

Fast  by  their  native  shore  ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 

Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 
Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 

And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A land  breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 
And  she  was  overset; 

Down  went  the  Royal  George, 
With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone ; 

His  last  sea-fight  is  fought; 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak ; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE. 


His  sword  was  in  its  sheath; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 

When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up, 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes, 

And  mingle  with  our  cup 

The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again 

Full-charged  with  England’s  thunder, 
And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 

His  victories  are  o’er ; 

And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 


273 


STANZAS, 

Subjoined  to  the  Yearly  Bill  of  Mortality  of  the  Parish  of 
All-Saints,  Northampton,*  Anno  Domini  1787. 


“Pallida  Mors  asquopulsat  pede  pauperum  tabernas, 

Regumque  turres.”  Horace. 

Pale  Death  with  equal  foot  strikes  wide  the  door 
Of  royal  halls,  and  hovels  of  the  poor. 


While  thirteen  moons  saw  smoothly  run 
The  Nen’s  barge-laden  wave, 

All  these,  life’s  rambling  journey  done, 

Have  found  their  home,  the  grave. 

Was  man  (frail  always)  made  more  frail 
Than  in  foregoing  years  ? 

Did  famine  or  did  plague  prevail, 

That  so  much  death  appears  ? 

No;  these  were  vigorous  as  their  sires; 

Nor  plague  nor  famine  came : 

This  annual  tribute  Death  requires, 

And  never  waives  his  claim. 

Like  crowded  forest-trees  we  stand, 

And  some  are  mark’d  to  fall ; 

The  axe  will  smite  at  God’s  command, 

And  soon  shall  smite  us  all. 

* Composed  for  John  Cox,  parish  clerk  of  Northampton. 


274 


BILL  OF  MORTALITY. 


Green  as  the  bay-tree,  ever  green, 

With  its  new  foliage  on, 

The  gay,  the  thoughtless,  have  I seen, 

I pass’d — and  they  were  gone. 

Read,  ye  that  run,  the  awful  truth 
With  which  I charge  my  page; 

A worm  is  in  the  bud  of  youth, 

And  at  the  root  of  age. 

No  present  health  can  health  insure 
For  yet  an  hour  to  come  ; 

No  medicine,  though  it  oft  can  cure, 

Can  always  baulk  the  tomb. 

And  0 ! that,  humble  as  my  lot, 

And  scorn’d  as  is  my  strain, 

These  truths,  though  known,  too  much  forgot, 
I may  not  teach  in  vain. 

So  prays  your  Clerk  with  all  his  heart, 

And,  ere  he  quits  the  pen, 

Begs  you  for  once  to  take  his  part, 

And  answer  all — Amen  ! 


275 


ON  A SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1788. 


“ Quod  adest,  memento 
Componere  sequus.  Caetera  fluminis 
Ritu  feruntur.”  Horace. 

Improve  the  present  hour,  for  all  beside 
Is  a mere  feather  on  a torrent’s  tide. 


Could  I,  from  Heaven  inspired,  as  sure  presage 
To  whom  the  rising  year  shall  prove  his  last, 

As  I can  number  in  my  punctual  page, 

And  item  down  the  victims  of  the  past ; 

How  each  would  trembling  wait  the  mournful  sheet, 
On  which  the  press  might  stamp  him  next  to  die ; 
And,  reading  here  his  sentence,  how  replete 
With  anxious  meaning,  heavenward  turn  his  eye  S 

Time  then  would  seem  more  precious  than  the  joys 
In  which  he  sports  away  the  treasure  now ; 

And  prayer  more  seasonable  than  the  noise 
Of  drunkard,  or  the  music-drawing  bow. 

Then,  doubtless,  many  a trifler,  on  the  brink 
Of  this  world’s  hazardous  and  headlong  shore, 
Forced  to  a pause,  would  feel  it  good  to  think, 

Told  that  his  setting  sun  must  rise  no  more. 


276 


BILL  OF  MORTALITY. 


Ah,  self-deceived ! Could  I prophetic  say 
Who  next  is  fated,  and  who  next  to  fall, 

The  rest  might  then  seem  privileged  to  play ; 

But,  naming  none,  the  Voice  now  speaks  to  all. 

Observe  the  dappled  foresters,  how  light 
They  bound,  and  airy,  o’er  the  sunny  glade — 

One  falls — the  rest,  wide  scatter’d  with  affright, 
Vanish  at  once  into  the  darkest  shade. 

Had  we  their  wisdom,  should  we,  often  warn’d, 
Still  need  repeated  warnings,  and,  at  last, 

A thousand  awful  admonitions  scorn’d, 

Die  self-accused  of  life  run  all  to  waste  ? 

Sad  waste ! for  which  no  after-thrift  atones  ; 

The  grave  admits  no  cure  for  guilt  or  sin ; 
Dew-drops  may  deck  the  turf  that  hides  the  bones, 
But  tears  of  godly  grief  ne’er  flow  within. 

Learn  then,  ye  living ! by  the  mouths  be  taught 
Of  all  these  sepulchres,  instructors  true, 

That,  soon  or  late,  death  also  is  your  lot, 

And  the  next  opening  grave  may  yawn  for  you. 


277 


ON  A SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1789. 


— “ Placidaque  ibi  demum  morte  quievit.” 

Virgil. 

There  calm  at  length  he  breathed  his  soul  away. 


“ O most  delightful  hour  by  man 
“ Experienced  here  below, 

“ The  hour  that  terminates  his  span, 

“ His  folly,  and  his  woe ! 

“ Worlds  should  not  bribe  me  back  to  tread 
“ Again  life’s  dreary  waste, 

“ To  see  again  my  day  o’erspread 
“With  all  the  gloomy  past. 

“ My  home  henceforth  is  in  the  skies, 

“ Earth,  seas,  and  sun,  adieu  ! 

“All  Heaven  unfolded  to  my  eyes, 

“ I have  no  sight  for  you.” 

So  spake  Aspasio,  firm  possess’d 
Of  faith’s  supporting  rod ; 

Then  breathed  his  soul  into  its  rest, 

The  bosom  of  his  God. 

24 


278 


BILL  OF  MORTALITY. 


He  was  a man  among  the  few 
Sincere  on  Virtue’s  side ; 

And  all  his  strength  from  Scripture  drew, 
To  hourly  use  applied. 

That  rule  he  prized ; by  that  he  fear’d, 
He  hated,  hoped,  and  loved ; 

Nor  ever  frown’d,  or  sad  appear’d, 

But  when  his  heart  had  roved. 

For  he  was  frail  as  thou  or  I, 

And  evil  felt  within : 

But,  when  he  felt  it,  heaved  a sigh, 

And  loathed  the  thought  of  sin. 

Such  lived  Aspasio  ; and  at  last 
Call’d  up  from  earth  to  Heaven, 

The  gulf  of  death  triumphant  pass’d, 

By  gales  of  blessing  driven. 

His  joys  be  mine , each  reader  cries, 
When  my  last  hour  arrives : 

They  shall  be  yours,  my  verse  replies, — 
Such  only  be  your  lives. 


279 


ON  A SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1790. 


“ Ne  commonentem  recta  sperne.” 

Buchanan. 

Despise  not  my  good  counsel. 


He  who  sits  from  day  to  day, 

Where  the  prison’d  lark  is  hung, 
Heedless  of  his  loudest  lay, 

Hardly  knows  that  he  has  sung. 

Where  the  watchman,  in  his  round, 
Nightly  lifts  his  voice  on  high, 

None  accustom’d  to  the  sound 
Wakes  the  sooner  for  his  cry. 

So  your  verse-man  I,  and  Clerk, 
Yearly  in  my  song  proclaim 
Death  at  hand — yourselves  his  mark — 
And  the  foe’s  unerring  aim. 

Duly  at  my  time  I come, 

Publishing  to  all  aloud — 

Soon  the  grave  must  be  your  home, 
And  your  only  suit,  a shroud. 

But  the  monitory  strain, 

Oft  repeated  in  your  ears, 

Seems  to  sound  too  much  in  vain, 
Wins  no  notice,  wakes  no  fears. 


280 


BILL  OP  MORTALITY. 


Can  a truth  by  all  confess’d 
Of  such  magnitude  and  weight, 

Grow,  by  being  oft  impress’d, 

Trivial  as  a parrot’s  prate  ? 

Pleasure’s  call  attention  wins, 

Hear  it  often  as  we  may ; 

New  as  ever  seem  our  sins, 

Though  committed  every  day. 

Death  and  Judgment,  Heaven  and  Hell, 
These  alone,  so  often  heard, 

No  more  move  us  than  the  bell, 

When  some  stranger  is  interr’d. 

O then,  ere  the  turf  or  tomb 
Cover  us  from  every  eye, 

Spirit  of  instruction  come, 

Make  us  learn  that  we  must  die. 


281 


ON  A SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1792. 


“ Felix,  qui  potuit  rerum  cognoscere  causas, 

Atque  metus  omnes  et  inexorabile  fatum 
Subjecit  pedibus,  strepitumque  Acherontis  avari !” 

VlRGrEL. 

Happy  the  mortal,  who  has  traced  effects 
-To  their  first  cause,  cast  fear  beneath  his  feet, 

And  Death,  and  roaring  Hell’s  voracious  fires. 


Thankless  for  favours  from  on  high, 

Man  thinks  he  fades  too  soon  ; 

Though  ’tis  his  privilege  to  die, 

Would  he  improve  the  boon. 

But  he,  not  wise  enough  to  scan 
His  best  concerns  aright, 

Would  gladly  stretch  life’s  little  span 
To  ages,  if  he  might. 

To  ages,  in  a world  of  pain, 

To  ages,  where  he  goes 

Gall’d  by  Affliction’s  heavy  chain, 

And  hopeless  of  repose. 

Strange  fondness  of  the  human  heart, 
Enamour’d  of  its  harm  ! 

Strange  world,  that  costs  it  so  much  smart, 
And  still  has  power  to  charm. 

24* 


28  2 


BILL  OF  MORTALITY. 


Whence  has  the  World  her  magic  power? 

Why  deem  we  Death  a foe  ? 

Recoil  from  weary  life’s  best  hour, 

And  covet  longer  woe  ? 

The  cause  is  Conscience — Conscience  oft 
Her  tale  of  guilt  renews  : 

Her  voice  is  terrible,  though  soft, 

And  dread  of  death  ensues. 

Then,  anxious  to  be  longer  spared, 

Man  mourns  his  fleeting  breath : 

All  evils  then  seem  light,  compared 
With  the  approach  of  Death. 

’Tis  judgment  shakes  him  ; there’s  the  fear 
That  prompts  the  wish  to  stay : 

He  has  incurr’d  a long  arrear, 

And  must  despair  to  pay. 

Pay  J — follow  Christ,  and  all  is  paid  ; 

His  death  your  peace  ensures  ; 

Think  on  the  grave  where  He  was  laid, 
And  calm  descend  to  yours . 


283 


ON  A SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1793. 


K De  sacris  autem  haec  sit  una  sententia,  ut  conserventur.” 

Cic.  de  Leg. 

But  let  us  all  concur  in  this  one  sentiment,  that  things  sacred  be 
inviolate. 


He  lives,  who  lives  to  God  alone, 
And  all  are  dead  beside  ; 

For  other  source  than  God  is  none, 
Whence  life  can  be  supplied. 

To  live  to  God  is  to  requite 
His  love  as  best  we  may ; 

To  make  His  precepts  our  delight, 
His  promises  our  stay. 

But  life,  within  a narrow  ring 
Of  giddy  joys  comprised, 

Is  falsely  named,  and  no  such  thing, 
But  rather  death  disguised. 

Can  life  in  them  deserve  the  name, 
Who  only  live  to  prove 

For  what  poor  toys  they  can  disclaim 
An  endless  life  above  ? 


284 


BILL  OF  MORTALITY. 


Who  much  diseased,  yet  nothing  feel; 
Much  menaced,  nothing  dread ; 

Have  wounds  which  only  God  can  heal, 
Yet  never  ask  His  aid? 

Who  deem  His  house  a useless  place, 
Faith,  want  of  common  sense; 

And  ardour  in  the  Christian  race, 

A hypocrite’s  pretence  ? 

Who  trample  order;  and  the  day 
Which  God  asserts  His  own, 

Dishonour  with  unhallow’d  play, 

And  worship  Chance  alone? 

If  scorn  of  God’s  commands,  impress’d 
On  word  and  deed,  imply 

The  better  part  of  man  unbless’d 
With  life  that  cannot  die; 

Such  want  it ; and  that  want,  uncured 
Till  man  resigns  his  breath, 

Speaks  him  a criminal,  assured 
Of  everlasting  death. 

Sad  period  to  a pleasant  course  ! 

Yet  so  will  God  repay 

Sabbaths  profaned  without  remorse, 

And  mercy  cast  away. 


285 


INSCRIPTION 

For  a Stone  erected  at  the  sowing  of  a Grove  of  Oaks  at  Chillington, 
the  Seat  of  T.  Giffard,  Esq*  1790. 

[June,  1790.] 

• / 

Other  stones  the  era  tell, 

When  some  feeble  mortal  fell ; 

I stand  here  to  date  the  birth 
Of  these  hardy  sons  of  earth. 

Which  shall  longest  brave  the  sky, 

Storm  and  frost — these  oaks  or  I ? 

Pass  an  age  or  two  away, 

I must  moulder  and  decay, 

But  the  years  that  crumble  me 
Shall  invigorate  the  tree, 

Spread  its  branch,  dilate  its  size, 

Lift  its  summit  to  the  skies. 

Cherish  honour,  virtue,  truth, 

So  shalt  thou  prolong  thy  youth. 

Wanting  these,  however  fast 
Man  be  fix’d,  and  form’d  to  last, 

He  is  lifeless  even  now, 

Stone  at  heart,  and  cannot  grow. 


286 


IN  MEMORY 

OP  THE  LATE  JOHN  THORNTON,  ESQ. 
[November,  1790.] 

Poets  attempt  the  noblest  task  they  can 
Praising  the  Author  of  all  good  in  man  ; 

And,  next,  commemorating  worthies  lost, 

The  dead  in  whom  that  good  abounded  most. 

Thee,  therefore,  of  commercial  fame,  but  more 
Famed  for  thy  probity  from  shore  to  shore, 

Thee,  Thornton  ! worthy  in  some  page  to  shine, 
As  honest,  and  more  eloquent  than  mine, 

I mourn ; or,  since  thrice  happy  thou  must  be, 

The  world,  no  longer  thy  abode,  not  thee. 

Thee  to  deplore,  were  grief  mispent  indeed ; 

It  were  to  weep  that  goodness  has  its  meed, — 
That  there  is  bliss  prepared  in  yonder  sky, 

And  glory  for  the  virtuous,  when  they  die. 

What  pleasure  can  the  miser’s  fondled  hoard, 

Or  spendthrift’s  prodigal  excess  afford. 

Sweet  as  the  privilege  of  healing  woe, 

By  virtue  suffer’d,  combating  below  ? 

That  privilege  was  thine  : Heaven  gave  thee  means 
To  illumine  with  delight  the  saddest  scenes, 

Till  thy  appearance  chased  the  gloom,  forlorn 
As  midnight,  and  despairing  of  a morn. 

Thou  hadst  an  industry  in  doing  good, 

Restless  as  his  who  toils  and  sweats  for  food. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  THORNTON,  ESQ.  287 

Avarice,  in  thee,  was  the  desire  of  wealth 
By  rust  unperishable,  or  by  stealth  ; 

And  if  the  genuine  worth  of  gold  depend 
On  application  to  its  noblest  end, 

Thine  had  a value,  in  the  scales  of  Heaven, 
Surpassing  all  that  mine  or  mint  had  given. 

And,  though  God  made  thee  of  a nature  prone 
To  distribution  boundless  of  thy  own, — 

And  still,  by  motives  of  religious  force, 

Impell’d  thee  more  to  that  heroic  course, — 

Yet  was  thy  liberality  discreet, 

Nice  in  its  choice,  and  of  a temper’d  heat ; 

And,  though  in  act  unwearied,  secret  still, 

As  in  some  solitude  the  summer  rill 
Refreshes,  where  it  winds,  the  faded  green, 

And  cheers  the  drooping  flowrers,  unheard,  unseen. 

Such  was  thy  charity ; no  sudden  start, 

After  long  sleep,  of  passion  in  the  heart, 

But  steadfast  principle,  and,  in  its  kind, 

Of  close  relation  to  the  Eternal  Mind, 

Traced  easily  to  its  true  source  above, — 

To  Him,  whose  works  bespeak  his  nature,  Love. 

Thy  bounties  all  were  Christian,  and  I make 
This  record  of  thee  for  the  Gospel’s  sake ; 

That  the  incredulous  themselves  may  see 
Its  use  and  power  exemplified  in  Thee. 


288 


VERSES 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  PR.  LLOYD. 

Translated  from  the  Latin  as  spoken  at  the  Westminster  Election 
next  after  his  decease. 

Our  good  old  friend  is  gone, — gone  to  his  rest, 

Whose  social  converse  was  itself  a feast. 

O ye  of  riper  age,  who  recollect 

How  once  ye  loved,  and  eyed  him  with  respect, 

Both  in  the  firmness  of  his  better  day, 

While  yet  he  ruled  you  with  a father’s  sway, 

And  when,  impair’d  by  time,  and  glad  to  rest, 

Yet  still,  with  looks  in  mild  complacence  drest, 

He  took  his  annual  seat,  and  mingled  here 
His  sprightly  vein  with  yours — now  drop  a tear. 

In  morals  blameless  as  in  manners  meek, 

He  knew  no  wish  that  he  might  blush  to  speak, 

But,  happy  in  whatever  state  below, 

And  richer  than  the  rich  in  being  so, 

Obtain’d  the  hearts  of  all,  and  such  a meed 
At  length  from  One,*  as  made  him  rich  indeed. 

Hence,  then,  ye  titles,  hence,  not  wanted  here, 

Go,  garnish  merit  in  a brighter  sphere, — 

The  brows  of  those  whose  more  exalted  lot 
He  could  congratulate,  but  envied  not. 

Light  lie  the  turf,  good  Senior  ! on  thy  breast, 

And  tranquil  as  thy  mind  was,  be  thy  rest ! 

Though,  living,  thou  hadst  more  desert  than  fame, 

And  not  a stone,  now,  chronicles  thy  name. 

* He  was  usher  and  under-master  of  Westminster  near  fifty  years, 
and  retired  from  his  occupation  when  he  was  near  seventy,  with  a 
handsome  pension  from  the  King. 


28  9 


EPITAPH 

ON  MRS.  M.  HIGGINS,  OF  WESTON. 

[1791.] 

Laurels  may  flourish  round  the  conqueror’s  tomb, 
But  happiest  they  who  win  the  world  to  come : 
Believers  have  a silent  field  to  fight, 

And  their  exploits  are  veil’d  from  human  sight. 

They,  in  some  nook,  where,  little  known,  they  dwell, 
Kneel,  pray  in  faith,  and  rout  the  hosts  of  hell ; 
Eternal  triumphs  crown  their  toils  divine, 

And  all  those  triumphs,  Mary,  now  are  thine. 


EPITAPH  ON  “FOP” 

A DOG  BELONGING  TO  LADY  THROCKMORTON. 
[August,  1792.] 

Though  once  a puppy,  and  though  Fop  by  name, 
Here  moulders  one  whose  bones  some  honour  claim. 
No  sycophant,  although  of  spaniel  race, 

And,  though  no  hound,  a martyr  to  the  chase — 

Ye  squirrels,  rabbits,  leverets,  rejoice, 

Your  haunts  no  longer  echo  to  his  voice ; 

This  record  of  his  fate  exulting  view, 

He  died  worn  out  with  vain  pursuit  of  you. 

“Yes,”— the  indignant  shade  of  Fop  replies — 

“ And  worn  with  vain  pursuit  man  also  dies.” 

25 


290 


EPITAPrf  ON  A HARE. 

Here  lies,  whom  hound  did  ne’er  pursue, 
Nor  swifter  greyhound  follow, — 

Whose  foot  ne’er  tainted  morning  dew, 
Nor  ear  heard  huntsman’s  hollo’ ; 

Old  Tiney,  surliest  of  his  kind, 

Who,  nursed  with  tender  care, 

And  to  domestic  bounds  confined, 

Was  still  a wild  Jack-hare* 

Though  duly  from  my  hand  he  took 
His  pittance  every  night, 

He  did  it  with  a jealous  look, 

And,  when  he  could,  would  bite. 

His  diet  was  of  wheaten  bread, 

And  milk,  and  oats,  and  straw  ; 

Thistles,  or  lettuces  instead, 

With  sand  to  scour  his  maw. 

On  twigs  of  hawthorn  he  regaled, 

On  pippins’  russet  peel, 

And,  when  his  juicy  salads  fail’d, 

Sliced  carrot  pleased  him  well. 

A Turkey  carpet  was  his  lawn, 

Whereon  he  loved  to  bound, — 

To  skip  and  gambol  like  a fawn, 

And  swing  his  rump  around. 


EPITAPH  ON  A HARE. 


291 


His  frisking  was  at  evening  hours, 

For  then  he  lost  his  fear, 

But  most  before  approaching  showers, 

Or  when  a storm  drew  near. 

Eight  years,  and  five  round-rolling  moons, 
He  thus  saw  steal  away, 

Dozing  out  all  his  idle  noons, 

And  every  night  at  play. 

I kept  him  for  his  humour’s  sake, 

For  he  would  oft  beguile 
My  heart  of  thoughts  that  made  it  ache, 
And  force  me  to  a smile. 

But  now,  beneath  this  walnut  shade 
He  finds  his  long  last  home, 

And  waits,  in  snug  concealment  laid, 

Till  gentler  Puss  shall  come : 

He,  still  more  aged,  feels  the  shocks 
From  which  no  care  can  saver 
And,  partner  once  of  Tiney’s  box, 

Must  soon  partake  his  grave. 


292 


LINES, 

Composed  for  a Memorial  of  Ashley  Cowper,  Esq.,  immediately 
after  his  death,  by  his  Nephew  William,  of  Weston. 

[June,  1788.] 


Farewell  ! endued  with  all  that  could  engage 
All  hearts  to  love  thee,  both  in  youth  and  age ! 

In  prime  of  life,  for  sprightliness  enroll’d 
Among  the  gay,  yet  virtuous  as  the  old ; 

In  life’s  last  stage  (O  ! blessings  rarely  found,) 
Pleasant  as  youth  with  all  its  blossoms  crown’d ; 
Through  every  period  of  this  changeful  state 
Unchanged  thyself — wise,  good,  affectionate  ! 

Marble  may  flatter ; and,  lest  this  should  seem 
O’ercharged  with  praises  on  so  dear  a theme, 
Although  thy  worth  be  more  than  half  suppress’d, 
Love  shall  be  satisfied,  and  veil  the  rest. 


293 


HYMN, 

FOR  THE  USE  OF  THE  SUNDAY  SCHOOL  AT  OLNEY. 

Hear,  Lord,  the  song  of  praise  and  prayer, 

In  Heaven,  Thy  dwelling-place, 

From  infants  made  the  public  care, 

And  taught  to  seek  Thy  face. 

Thanks  for  Thy  word,  and  for  Thy  day, 

And  grant  us,  we  implore, 

Never  to  waste,  in  sinful  play, 

Thy  holy  sabbaths  more. 

Thanks  that  we  hear, — but  O impart 
To  each  desires  sincere, 

That  we  may  listen  with  our  heart, 

And  learn  as  well  as  hear. 

For  if  vain  thoughts  the  mind  engage 
Of  older  far  than  we, 

What  hope,  that,  at  our  heedless  age, 

Our  minds  should  e’er  be  free  ? 

Much  hope,  if  Thou  our  spirits  take 
Under  Thy  gracious  sway, 

Who  canst  the  wisest  wiser  make, 

And  babes  as  wise  as  they. 

Wisdom  and  bliss  Thy  Word  bestows, 

A sun  that  ne’er  declines  ; 

And  be  thy  mercies  shower’d  on  those 
% Who  placed  us  where  it  shines. 

25* 


294 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN 
GILPIN; 

SHOWING  HOW  HE  WENT  FARTHER  THAN  HE 
INTENDED,  AND  CAME  SAFE  HOME  AGAIN. 

John  Gilpin  was  a citizen 
Of  credit  and  renown, 

A trainband  Captain  eke  was  he 
Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin’s  spouse  said  to  her  dear, 

Though  wedded  we  have  been 
These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

To-morrow  is  our  wedding  day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton, 

All  in  a chaise  and  pair. 

My  sister,  and  my  sister’s  child, 

Myself,  and  children  three, 

Will  fill  the  chaise  ; so  you  must  ride 
On  horseback  after  we, 

He  soon  replied — I do  admire 
Of  womankind  but  one, 

And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear, 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 


JOHN  GILPIN. 


295 


I am  a linendraper  bold 

As  all  the  world  doth  know, 

And  my  good  friend  the  Callender 
Will  lend  his  horse  to  go. 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin — That’s  well  said; 

And,  for  that  wine  is  dear, 

We  will  be  furnish’d  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear. 

John  Gilpin  kiss’d  his  loving  wife; 

O’erjoy’d  was  he  to  find 

That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 
But  yet  was  not  allow’d 

To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 
Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stay’d, 
Where  they  did  all  get  in ; 

Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 
To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels, 
Were  never  folk  so  glad, 

The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin,  at  his  horse’s  side, 

Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 

And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride, 

But  soon  came  down  again: 


296 


THE  HISTORY  OP 


For  saddle-tree  scarce  reach’d  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 

When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 
Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came : for  loss  of  time, 
Although  it  grieved  him  sore ; 

Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 
Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

’Twas  long  before  the  customers 
Were  suited  to  their  mind, 

When  Betty,  screaming,  came  down  stairs, 
44  The  wine  is  left  behind  !” 

Good  lack  ! quoth  he — yet  bring  it  me, 

My  leathern  belt  likewise, 

In  which  I bear  my  trusty  sword, 

When  I do  exercise. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul!) 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 

To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a curling  ear, 

Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a bottle  on  each  side, 

To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then,  over  all,  that  he  might  be 
Equipp’d  from  top  to  toe, 

His  long  red  cloak,  well  brush’d  and  neat, 
He  manfully  did  throw. 


JOHN  GILPIN. 


297 


Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 
Upon  his  nimble  steed, 

Full  slowly  pacing  o’er  the  stones, 

With  caution  and  good  heed: 

But  finding  soon  a smoother  road 
Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 

The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  gall’d  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  Fair  and  softly,  John  he  cried, 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain ; 

That  trot  became  a gallop  soon, 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So,  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 
Who  cannot  sit  upright. 

He  grasp’d  the  mane  with  both  his  hands, 
And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 
Had  handled  been  before, 

What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 
Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig ; 

He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out, 

Of  running  such  a rig. 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly, 
Like  streamer  long  and  gay, 

Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both 
At  last  it  flew  away. 


298 


THE  HISTORY  OP 


Then  might  all  people  well  discern 
The  bottles  he  had  slung ; 

A bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  scream’d, 
Up  flew  the  windows  all ; 

And  ev’ry  soul  cried  out,  Well  done  ! 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin — who  but  he? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around, — 

He  carries  weight ! he  rides  a race ! 

’Tis  for  a thousand  pound  ! 

And  still,  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

’Twas  wonderful  to  view, 

How  in  a trice  the  turnpike  men 
Their  gates  wide  open  threw ! 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 
His  reeking  head  full  low, 

The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back, 

Were  shatter’d  at  a blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road 
Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 

Which  made  his  horse’s  flanks  to  smoke 
As  they  had  basted  been. 

But  still  he  seem’d  to  carry  weight, 

With  leathern  girdle  braced ; 

For  all  might  see  the  bottle-necks 
Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 


JOHN  GILPIN. 


299 


Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 
These  gambols  did  he  play, 

Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 
Of  Edmonton  so  gay ; 

And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 
On  both  sides  of  the  way, 

Just  like  unto  a trundling  mop, 

Or  a wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton,  his  loving  wife 
From  the  balcony  spied 

Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 
To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin ! — Here’s  the  house — 
They  all  at  once  did  cry ; 

The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired : 

Said  Gilpin — So  am  I ! 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a whit 
Inclined  to  tarry  there  ; 

For  why? — his  owner  had  a house 
Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 

So,  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong ; 

So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 
The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will, 

Till  at  his  friend  the  Callender’s 
His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 


300 


THE  HISTORY  OP 


The  Callender,  amazed  to  see 
His  neighbour  in  such  trim, 

Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him : 

What  news  ? what  news?  your  tidings  tell 
Tell  me  you  must  and  shall — 

Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come, 

Or  why  you  come  at  all  ? 

Now  Gilpin  had  a pleasant  wit, 

And  loved  a timely  joke, 

And  thus  unto  the  Callender 
In  merry  guise  he  spoke : 

I came  because  your  horse  would  come ; 

And,  if  I well  forebode, 

My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here, 

They  are  upon  the  road. 

The  Callender,  right  glad  to  find 
His  friend  in  merry  pin, 

Return’d' him  not  a single  word, 

But  to  the  house  went  in ; 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig 
A wig  that  flow’d  behind, 

A hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear, 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 
Thus  show’d  his  ready  wit, — 

My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 


JOHN  GILPIN. 


301 


But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away, 

That  hangs  upon  your  face ; 

And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 
Be  in  a hungry  case. 

Said  John,  It  is  my  wedding-day, 

And  all  the  world  would  stare, 

If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

And  I should  dine  at  Ware. 

So,  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

I am  in  haste  to  dine ; 

’Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here, 
You  shall  go  back  for  mine. 

Ah  ! luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast! 
For  which  he  paid  full  dear; 

For,  while  he  spake,  a braying  ass 
Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 
Had  heard  a lion  roar, 

And  gallop’d  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  Gilpin’s  hat  and  wig: 

He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first, 

For  why  ? they  were  too  big. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 
Her  husband  posting  down 

Into  the  country  far  away, 

She  pull’d  out  half-a-crown ; 

26 


302 


THE  HISTORY  OF 


And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said, 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 

This  shall  be  yours,  when  you  bring  back 
My  husband  safe  and  well. 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 
John  coming  back  amain; 

Whom  in  a trice  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein ; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 

And  gladly  would  have  done, 

The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  postboy  at  his  heels, 

The  postboy’s  horse  right  glad  to  miss 
The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road, 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 

With  postboy  scampering  in  the  rear, 
They  raised  the  hue  and  cry : — 

Stop  thief!  stop  thief! — a highwayman! 
Not  one  of  them  was  mute ; 

And  all  and  each  that  pass’d  that  way 
Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 
Flew  open  in  short  space  ; 

The  toll-men  thinking  as  before, 

That  Gilpin  rode  a race : 


THE  GLOW-WORM. 


303 


And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town  ; 

Nor  stopp’d  till  where  he  had  got  up 
He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  Long  live  the  king, 
And  Gilpin,  long  live  he ; 

And,  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 
May  I be  there  to  see ! 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  VINCENT  BOURNE. 


I.  THE  GLOW-WORM. 

Beneath  the  hedge,  or  near  the  stream, 
A worm  is  known  to  stray, 

That  shows  by  night  a lucid  beam, 
Which  disappears  by  day. 

Disputes  have  been,  and  still  prevail, 
From  whence  his  rays  proceed ; 

Some  give  that  honour  to  his  tail, 

And  others  to  his  head. 

But  this  is  sure— the  hand  of  might, 
That  kindles  up  the  skies, 

Gives  him  a modicum  of  light 
Proportion’d  to  his  size. 


304 


THE  JACKDAW. 


Perhaps  indulgent  Nature  meant, 

By  such  a lamp  bestow’d, 

To  bid  the  traveller,  as  he  went, 

Be  careful  where  he  trod : 

Nor  crush  a worm,  whose  useful  light 
Might  serve,  however  small, 

To  show  a stumbling  stone  by  night, 
And  save  him  from  a fall. 

Whate’er  she  meant,  this  truth  divine 
Is  legible  and  plain, 

’Tis  Power  almighty  bids  him  shine, 
Nor  bids  him  shine  in  vain. 

Ye  proud  and  wealthy,  let  this  theme 
Teach  humbler  thoughts  to  you, 
Since  such  a reptile  has  its  gem, 

And  boasts  its  splendour  too. 


II.  THE  JACKDAW. 

There  is  a bird  who,  by  his  coat, 
And  by  the  hoarseness  of  his  note, 
Might  be  supposed  a crow  ; 

A great  frequenter  of  the  church, 
Where,  bishoplike,  he  finds  a perch 
And  dormitory  too. 


THE  JACKDAW. 


305 


Above  the  steeple  shines  a plate, 

That  turns  and  turns,  to  indicate 

From  what  point  blows  the  weather ; 
Look  up — your  brains  begin  to  swim, 
’Tis  in  the  clouds — that  pleases  him, 
He  chooses  it  the  rather. 

Fond  of  the  speculative  height, 

Thither  he  wings  his  airy  flight, 

And  thence  securely  sees 
The  bustle  and  the  raree-show 
That  occupy  mankind  below, 

Secure  and  at  his  ease. 

You  think,  no  doubt,  he  sits  and  muses 
On  future  broken  bones  and  bruises, 

If  he  should  chance  to  fall. 

No;  not  a single  thought  like  that 
Employs  his  philosophic  pate, 

Or  troubles  it  at  all. 

He  sees  that  this  great  roundabout, 

The  world,  with  all  its  motley  rout, 
Church,  army,  physic,  law, 

Its  customs,  and  its  business, 

Is  no  concern  at  all  of  his, 

And  says — what  says  he? — Caw. 

Thrice  happy  bird ! I too  have  seen 
Much  of  the  vanities  of  men ; 

And,  sick  of  having  seen  ’em, 
Would  cheerfully  these  limbs  resign 
For  such  a pair  of  wings  as  thine 
And  such  a head  between  ’em. 

26* 


III.  THE  PARROT. 


In  painted  plumes  superbly  dress’d, 

A native  of  the  gorgeous  east, 

By  many  a billow  toss’d; 

Poll  gains  at  length  the  British  shore, 
Part  of  the  captain’s  precious  store, 

A present  to  his  toast. 

Belinda’s  maids  are  soon  preferr’d 
To  teach  him  now  and  then  a word, 

As  Poll  can  master  it ; 

But  ’tis  her  own  important  charge 
To  qualify  him  more  at  large, 

And  make  him  quite  a wit. 

Sweet  Poll ! his  doating  mistress  cries, 
Sweet  Poll ! the  mimic  bird  replies  ; 

And  calls  aloud  for  sack. 

She  next  instructs  him  in  the  kiss ; 

’Tis  now  a little  one,  like  Miss, 

And  now  a hearty  smack. 

At  first  he  aims  at  what  he  hears ; 

And,  listening  close  with  both  his  ears, 
Just  catches  at  the  sound, 

But  soon  articulates  aloud, 

Much  to  the  amusement  of  the  crowd, 
And  stuns  the  neighbours  round. 


THE  CRICKET. 


307 


A querulous  old  woman’s  voice 
His  humorous  talent  next  employs  ; 

He  scolds  and  gives  the  lie. 

And  now  he  sings,  and  now  is  sick, 
Here,  Sally,  Susan,  come,  come  quick, 
Poor  Poll  is  like  to  die ! 

Belinda  and  her  bird ! ’tis  rare 
To  meet  with  such  a well-match’d  pair, 
The  language  and  the  tone, 

Each  character  in  every  part 
Sustain’d  with  so  much  grace  and  art, 
And  both  in  unison. 

When  children  first  begin  to  spell, 

And  stammer  out  a syllable, 

We  think  them  tedious  creatures  ; 
But  difficulties  soon  abate 
When  birds  are  to  be  taught  to  prate, 
And  women  are  the  teachers. 


IV.  THE  CRICKET. 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth, 
Chirping  on  my  kitchen  hearth, 
Wheresoe’er  be  thine  abode, 
Always  harbinger  of  good, 

Pay  me  for  thy  warm  retreat 
With  a song  more  soft  and  sweet ; 
In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a strain  as  I can  give. 


308 


THE  CRICKET. 


Thus  thy  praise  shall  be  express’d, 
Inoffensive,  welcome  guest ! 

While  the  rat  is  on  the  scout, 

And  the  mouse  with  curious  snout, 
With  what  vermin  else  infest 
Every  dish,  and  spoil  the  best ; 
Frisking  thus  before  the  fire, 

Thou  hast  all  thine  heart’s  desire. 

Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  be 
Form’d  as  if  akin  to  thee, 

Thou  surpassest,  happier  far, 

Happiest  grasshoppers  that  are  ; 

Theirs  is  but  a summer’s  song, 

Thine  endures  the  winter  long, 
Unimpair’d,  and  shrill,  and  clear, 
Melody  throughout  the  year. 

Neither  night,  nor  dawn  of  day, 

Puts  a period  to  thy  play : 

Sing  then — and  extend  thy  span 
Far  beyond  the  date  of  man. 

Wretched  man,  whose  years  are  spent 
In  repining  discontent, 

Lives  not,  aged  though  he  be, 

Half  a span,  compared  with  thee. 


309 


V.  RECIPROCAL  KINDNESS, 

THE  PRIMARY  LAW  OF  NATURE. 

Androcles,  from  his  injured  lord,  in  dread 
Of  instant  death,  to  Libya’s  desert  fled : 

Tired  with  his  toilsome  flight,  and  parch’d  with  heat, 
He  spied  at 'length  a cavern’s  cool  retreat ; 

But  scarce  had  given  to  rest  his  weary  frame, 

When,  hugest  of  his  kind,  a lion  came  : 

He  roar’d,  approaching  : but  the  savage  din 
To  plaintive  murmurs  changed — arrived  within, 

And,  with  expressive  looks,  his  lifted  paw 
Presenting,  aid  implored  from  whom  he  saw. 

The  fugitive,  through  terror  at  a stand, 

Dared  not  awhile  afford  his  trembling  hand, 

But  bolder  grown,  at  length  inherent  found 
A pointed  thorn,  and  drew  it  from  the  wound. 

The  cure  was  wrought ; he  wiped  the  sanious  blood, 
And  firm  and  free  from  pain  the  lion  stood. 

Again  he  seeks  the  wilds,  and  day  by  day 
Regales  his  inmate  with  the  parted  prey. 

Nor  he  disdains  the  dole,  though  unprepared, 

Spread  on  the  ground,  and  with  a lion  shared. 

But  thus  to  live — still  lost — sequester’d  still — 

Scarce  seem’d  his  lord’s  revenge  an  heavier  ill. 

Home  ! native  home  ! O might  he  but  repair  ! 

He  must — he  will,  though  death  attends  him  there. 

He  goes,  and  doom’d  to  perish,  on  the  sands 
Of  the  full  theatre  unpitied  stands  : 

When,  lo  ! the  self-same  lion  from  his  cage 
Flies  to  devour  him,  famish’d  into  rage. 


310 


THE  THRACIAN. 


He  flies,  but  viewing,  in  his  purposed  prey, 

The  man,  his  healer,  pauses  on  his  way, 

And,  soften’d  by  remembrance  into  sweet 
And  kind  composure,  crouches  at  his  feet. 

Mute  with  astonishment,  the  assembly  gaze  : 

But  why,  ye  Romans  ? Whence  your  mute  amaze  ? 
All  this  is  natural : Nature  bade  him  rend 
An  enemy  ; she  bids  him  spare  a friend. 


VI.  THE  THRACIAN. 

Thracian  parents  at  his  birth, 

Mourn  their  babe  with  many  a tear, 
But,  with  undissembled  mirth, 

Place  him  breathless  on  his  bier. 

Greece  and  Rome,  with  equal  scorn, 

“ O the  savages  !”  exclaim, 

“ Whether  they  rejoice  or  mourn, 

“ Well  entitled  to  the  name  !” 

But  the  cause  of  this  concern, 

And  this  pleasure,  would  they  trace, 
Even  they  might  somewhat  learn 
From  the  savages  of  Thrace. 


311 


VII.  A MANUAL, 

MORE  ANCIENT  THAN  THE  ART  OF  PRINTING,  AND 
NOT  TO  BE  FOUND  IN  ANY  CATALOGUE. 

There  is  a book,  which  we  may  call 
(Its  excellence  is  such) 

Alone  a library,  though  small ; 

The  ladies  thumb  it  much. 

Words  none,  things  numerous  it  contains: 

And,  things  with  words  compared, 

Who  needs  be  told,  that  has  his  brains, 

Which  merits  most  regard  ? 

Ofttimes  its  leaves  of  scarlet  hue 
A golden  edging  boast ; 

And  open’d,  it  displays  to  view 
Twelve  pages  at  the  most. 

Nor  name,  nor  title,  stamp’d  behind, 

Adorns  its  outer  part: 

But  all  within  ’tis  richly  lined, 

A magazine  of  art. 

The  whitest  hands,  that  secret  hoard 
Oft  visit : and  the  fair 

Preserve  it,  in  their  bosoms  stored, 

As  with  a miser’s  care. 


312 


A MANUAL. 


Thence  implements  of  every  size, 

And  form’d  for  various  use 

(They  need  but  to  consult  their  eyes) 
They  readily  produce. 

The  largest  and  the  longest  kind 
Possess  the  foremost  page, 

A sort  most  needed  by  the  blind, 

Or  nearly  such,  from  age. 

The  full-charged  leaf,  which  next  ensues, 
Presents,  in  bright  array, 

The  smaller  sort,  which  matrons  use, 
Not  quite  so  blind  as  they. 

The  third,  the  fourth,  the  fifth  supply 
What  their  occasions  ask, 

Who,  with  a more  discerning  eye, 
Perform  a nicer  task. 

But  still,  with  regular  decrease, 

From  size  to  size  they  fall, 

In  every  leaf  grow  less  and  less  ; 

The  last  are  least  of  all. 

O ! what  a fund  of  genius,  pent 
In  narrow  space,  is  here  ! 

This  volume’s  method  and  intent 
How  luminous  and  clear ! 

It  leaves  no  reader  at  a loss 
Or  posed,  whoever  reads  : 

No  commentator’s  tedious  gloss, 

Nor  even  index  needs. 


AN  ENIGMA. 


313 


Search  Bodley’s  many  thousands  o’er ; 

No  book  is  treasured  there, 

Nor  yet  in  Granta’s  numerous  store, 
That  may  with  this  compare. 

No ! — rival  none  in  either  host 
Of  this  was  ever  seen, 

Or,  that  contents  could  justly  boast, 

So  brilliant  and  so  keen. 


VIII.  AN  ENIGMA. 

A needle,  small  as  small  can  be, 
In  bulk  and  use  surpasses  me, 

Nor  is  my  purchase  dear ; 

For  little,  and  almost  for  nought, 
As  many  of  my  kind  are  bought 
As  days  are  in  the  year. 

Yet  though  but  little  use  we  boast, 
And  are  procured  at  little  cost, 

The  labour  is  not  light ; 

Nor  few  artificers  it  asks, 

All  skilful  in  their  several  tasks, 
To  fashion  us  aright. 

One  fuses  metal  o’er  the  fire, 

A second  draws  it  into  wire, 

The  shears  another  plies — 

27 


314  SPARROWS,  SELF-DOMESTICATED. 

Who  clips  in  length  the  brazen  thread 
For  him  who,  chafing  every  shred, 

Gives  all  an  equal  size. 

A fifth  prepares,  exact  and  round, 

The  knob  with  which  it  must  be  crown’d ; 

His  follower  makes  it  fast, 

And,  with  his  mallet  and  his  file 
To  shape  the  point,  employs  awhile 
The  seventh  and  the  last. 

Now,  therefore,  (E dipus!  declare 
What  creature,  wonderful  and  rare, 

A process  that  obtains 
Its  purpose  with  so  much  ado, 

At  last  produces  ? — tell  me  true, 

And  take  me  for  your  pains ! 


IX.  SPARROWS,  SELF-DOMESTICATED 

IN  TRINITY  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE. 

None  ever  shared  the  social  feast, 

Or  as  an  inmate  or  a guest, 

Beneath  the  celebrated  dome, 

Where  once  Sir  Isaac  had  his  home, 


SPARROWS,  SELF-DOMESTICATED. 


315 


Who  saw  not  (and  with  some  delight 
Perhaps  he  view’d  the  novel  sight) 

How  numerous,  at  the  tables  there, 

The  sparrows  beg  their  daily  fare. 

For  there,  in  every  nook  and  cell 
Where  such  a family  may  dwell, 

Sure  as  the  vernal  season  comes 
Their  nests  they  weave  in  hope  of  crumbs, 
Which,  kindly  given,  may  serve  with  food 
Convenient  their  unfeather’d  brood ; 

And  oft  as  with  its  summons  clear 
The  warning  bell  salutes  their  ear, 
Sagacious  listeners  to  the  sound, 

They  flock  from  all  the  fields  around, 

To  reach  the  hospitable  hall, 

None  more  attentive  to  the  call. 

Arrived,  the  pensionary  band, 

Hopping  and  chirping,  close  at  hand, 
Solicit  what  they  soon  receive, 

The  sprinkled,  plenteous  donative. 

Thus  is  a multitude,  though  large, 
Supported  at  a trivial  charge  ; 

A single  doit  would  overpay 
The  expenditure  of  every  day, 

And  who  can  grudge  so  small  a grace 
To  suppliants,  natives  of  the  place? 


316 


X.  FAMILIARITY  DANGEROUS. 

As  in  her  ancient  mistress’  lap 
The  youthful  tabby  lay, 

They  gave  each  other  many  a tap, 

Alike  disposed  to  play. 

But  strife  ensues.  Puss  waxes  warm, 
And,  with  protruded  claws, 

Ploughs  all  the  length  of  Lydia’s  arm, 
Mere  wantonness  the  cause. 

At  once,  resentful  of  the  deed, 

She  shakes  her  to  the  ground 
With  many  a threat,  that  she  shall  bleed 
With  still  a deeper  wound. 

But,  Lydia,  bid  thy  fury  rest ; 

It  was  a venial  stroke  : 

For  she  that  will  with  kittens  jest 
Should  bear  a kitten’s  joke. 


XI.  INVITATION  TO  THE  REDBREAST. 

Sweet  bird,  whom  the  winter  constrains — 

And  seldom  another  it  can — 

To  seek  a retreat  while  he  reigns 

In  the  well-shelter’ d dwellings  of  man, 


INVITATION  TO  THE  REDBREAST. 


317 


Who  never  can  seem  to  intrude, 

Though  in  all  places  equally  free, 
Come,  oft  as  the  season  is  rude, 

Thou  art  sure  to  be  welcome  to  me. 

At  sight  of  the  first  feeble  ray 

That  pierces  the  clouds  of  the  east, 
To  inveigle  thee  every  day 

My  windows  shall  show  thee  a feast : 
For,  taught  by  experience,  I know 
Thee  mindful  of  benefit  long  ; 

And  that,  thankful  for  all  I bestow, 

Thou  wilt  pay  me  with  many  a song. 

Then,  soon  as  the  swell  of  the  buds 
Bespeaks  the  renewal  of  spring, 

Fly  hence,  if  thou  wilt,  to  the  woods, 

Or  where  it  shall  please  thee  to  sing  : 
And  shouldst  thou,  compell’d  by  a frost, 
Come  again  to  my  window  or  door, 
Doubt  not  an  affectionate  host, 

Only  pay  as  thou  pay’dst  me  before. 

Thus  music  must  needs  be  confess’d 
To  flow  from  a fountain  above ; 

Else  how  should  it  work  in  the  breast 
Unchangeable  friendship  and  love? 
And  who  on  the  globe  can  be  found, 

Save  your  generation  and  ours, 

That  can  be  delighted  by  sound, 

Or  boasts  any  musical  powers  ? 


27* 


318 


XII.  STRADA’S  NIGHTINGALE. 

The  shepherd  touch’d  his  reed;  sweet  Philomel 
Essay’d,  and  oft  essay’d  to  catch  the  strain, 

And  treasuring,  as  on  her  ear  they  fell, 

The  numbers,  echo’d  note  for  note  again. 

The  peevish  youth,  who  ne’er  had  found  before 
A rival  of  his  skill,  indignant  heard, 

And  soon  (for  various  was  his  tuneful  store) 

In  loftier  tones  defied  the  simple  bird. 

She  dared  the  task,  and,  rising  as  he  rose, 

With  all  the  force  that  passion  gives  inspired, 

Return’d  the  sounds  awhile,  but  in  the  close 
Exhausted  fell,  and  at  his  feet  expired. 

Thus  strength,  not  skill,  prevail’d.  O fatal  strife, 
By  thee,  poor  songstress,  playfully  begun ; 

And,  O sad  victory,  which  cost  thy  life, 

And  he  may  wish  that  he  had  never  won ! 


XIII.  ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A LADY, 

WHO  LIVED  ONE  HUNDRED  YEARS,  AND  DIED  ON 
HER  BIRTHDAY,  1728. 

Ancient  dame,  how  wide  and  vast, 

To  a race  like  ours,  appears, 

Rounded  to  an  orb  at  last, 

All  thy  multitude  of  years ! 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A LADY. 


319 


We,  the  herd  of  human  kind, 

Frailer,  and  of  feebler  powers  ; 

We,  to  narrow  bounds  confined, 

Soon  exhaust  the  sum  of  ours. 

Death’s  delicious  banquet — we 
Perish  even  from  the  womb, — 

Swifter  than  a shadow  flee, — 

Nourish’d  but  to  feed  the  tomb. 

Seeds  of  merciless  disease 
Lurk  in  all  that  we  enjoy; 

Some  that  waste  us  by  degrees, 

Some  that  suddenly  destroy. 

And,  if  life  o’erleap  the  bourn 
Common  to  the  sons  of  men, 

What  remains,  but  that  we  mourn, 
Dream,  and  doat,  and  drivel  then? 

Fast  as  moons  can  wax  and  wane, 
Sorrow  comes ; and,  while  we  groan, 

Pant  with  anguish,  and  complain, 

Half  our  years  are  fled  and  gone. 

If  a few,  (to  few  ’tis  given,) 

Lingering  on  this  earthly  stage, 

Creep  and  halt  with  steps  uneven, 

To  the  period  of  an  age, — 

Wherefore  live  they,  but  to  see 
Cunning,  arrogance,  and  force, 

Sights  lamented  much  by  thee, 

Holding  their  accustom’d  course? 


32  0 


THE  CAUSE  WON. 


Oft  was  seen,  in  ages  past, 

All  that  we  with  wonder  view; 
Often  shall  be  to  the  last ; 

Earth  produces  nothing  new. 

Thee  we  gratulate,  content 

Should  propitious  Heaven  design 
Life  for  us  as  calmly  spent, 

Though  but  half  the  length  of  thine. 


XIV.  THE  CAUSE  WON. 

Two  neighbours  furiously  dispute; 

A field — the  subject  of  the  suit. 

Trivial  the  spot,  yet  such  the  rage 
With  which  the  combatants  engage, 
’Twere  hard  to  tell  who  covets  most 

The  prize at  whatsoever  cost. 

The  pleadings  swell.  Words  still  suffice 
No  single  word  but  has  its  price. 

No  term  but  yields  some  fair  pretence 
For  novel  and  increased  expense. 

Defendant  thus  becomes  a name, 
Which  he  that  bore  it  may  disclaim, 

Since  both,  in  one  description  blended, 
Are  plaintiffs — when  the  suit  is  ended. 


321 


XV.  THE  SILKWORM. 

The  beams  of  April,  ere  it  goes, 

A worm,  scarce  visible,  disclose ; 

All  winter  long  content  to  dwell 
The  tenant  of  his  native  shell. 

The  same  prolific  season  gives 
The  sustenance  by  which  he  lives, 

The  mulberry  leaf,  a simple  store, 

That  serves  him — -till  he  needs  no  more ! 

For,  his  dimensions  once  complete, 
Thenceforth  none  ever  sees  him  eat ; 

Though  till  his  growing  time  be  past, 

Scarce  ever  is  he  seen  to  fast. 

That  hour  arrived,  his  work  begins : 

He  spins  and  weaves,  and  weaves  and  spins ; 
Till  circle  upon  circle  wound 
Careless  around  him  and  around, 

Conceals  him  with  a veil,  though  slight, 
Impervious  to  the  keenest  sight. 

Thus  self-enclosed,  as  in  a cask, 

At  length  he  finishes  his  task ; 

And,  though  a worm  when  he  was  lost, 

Or  caterpillar  at  the  most, 

When  next  we  see  him,  wings  he  wears, 
And  in  papilio  pomp  appears ! 

Becomes  oviparous ; supplies 
With  future  worms  and  future  flies 
The  next  ensuing  year— and  dies ! 

Well  were  it  for  the  world,  if  all 
Who  creep  about  this  earthly  ball, 

Though  shorter-lived  than  most  he  be, 

Were  useful  in  their  kind  as  he. 


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XVI.  DENNER’S  OLD  WOMAN. 

In  this  mimic  form  of  a matron  in  years, 

How  plainly  the  pencil  of  Denner  appears ! 

The  matron  herself,  in  whose  old  age  we  see 
Not  a trace  of  decline,  what  a wonder  is  she  ! 

No  dimness  of  eye,  and  no  cheek  hanging  low, 

No  wrinkle,  or  deep-furrow’d  frown  on  the  brow  ! 

Her  forehead  indeed  is  here  circled  around 
With  locks  like  the  ribbon  with  which  they  are  bound; 
While  glossy  and  smooth,  and  as  soft  as  the  skin 
Of  a delicate  peach,  is  the  down  of  her  chin ; 

But  nothing  unpleasant,  or  sad,  or  severe, 

Or  that  indicates  life  in  its  winter — is  here ; 

Yet  all  is  express’d  with  fidelity  due, 

Nor  a pimple  or  freckle  conceal’d  from  the  view. 

Many,  fond  of  new  sights,  or  who  cherish  a taste 
For  the  labours  of  art,  to  the  spectacle  haste. 

The  youths  all  agree,  that  could  old  age  inspire 
The  passion  of  love,  hers  would  kindle  the  fire ; 

And  the  matrons  with  pleasure  confess  that  they  see 
Ridiculous  nothing  or  hideous  in  thee. 

The  nymphs  for  themselves  scarcely  hope  a decline, 

O wonderful  woman ! as  placid  as  thine. 

Strange  magic  art ! which  the  youth  can  engage 
To  peruse,  half-enamour’d,  the  features  of  age; 

And  force  from  the  virgin  a sigh  of  despair, 

That  she,  when  as  old,  shall  be  equally  fair! 

How  great  is  the  glory  that  Denner  has  gain’d, 

Since  Apelles  not  more  for  his  Venus  obtain’d  ! 


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XVII.  THE  MAZE. 

From  right  to  left,  and  to  and  fro, 

Caught  in  a labyrinth  you  go. 

And  turn,  and  turn,  and  turn  again, 

To  solve  the  mystery,  but  in  vain; 

Stand  still,  and  breathe,  and  take  from  me 
A clew,  that  soon  shall  set  you  free ! 

Not  Ariadne,  if  you  meet  her, 

Herself  could  serve  you  with  a better. 

You  enter’d  easily find  where 

And  make  with  ease  your  exit  there  ! 


XVIII.  NO  SORROW  PECULIAR  TO  THE 
SUFFERER. 

The  lover,  in  melodious  verses, 

His  singular  distress  rehearses  ; 

Still  closing  with  a rueful  cry, 

“Was  ever  such  a wretch  as  I?” 

Yes!  thousands  have  endured  before 
All  thy  distress;  some,  haply,  more. 
Unnumber’d  Cory  dons  complain, 

And  Strephons,  of  the  like  disdain ; 

And  if  thy  Chloe  be  of  steel, 

Too  deaf  to  hear,  too  hard  to  feel ; 

Not  her  alone  that  censure  fits, 

Nor  thou  alone  hast  lost  thy  wits. 


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XIX.  THE  SNAIL. 

To  grass,  or  leaf,  or  fruit,  or  wall, 

The  Snail  sticks  close,  nor  fears  to  fall, 

As  if  he  grew  there,  house  and  all 

Together. 

Within  that  house  secure  he  hides, 

When  danger  imminent  betides 
Of  storm,  or  other  harm  besides 

Of  weather. 

Give  but  his  horns  the  slightest  touch? 

His  self-collecting  power  is  such, 

He  shrinks  into  his  house,  with  much 

Displeasure. 

Where’er  he  dwells,  he  dwells  alone, 

Except  himself  has  chattels  none, 

Well  satisfied  to  b.e  his  own 

Whole  treasure. 

Thus,  hermit-like,  his  life  he  leads, 

Nor  partner  of  his  banquet  needs, 

And  if  he  meets  one,  only  feeds 

The  faster. 

Who  seeks  him  must  be  worse  than  blind, 
(He  and  his  house  are  so  combined,) 

If,  finding  it,  he  fails  to  find 

Its  master. 


THE  END. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  L.  JOHNSON,  PHILADELPHIA. 


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